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HELENA’S PATH 









Helena’s Path 

Ify 

ANTHONY HOPE 

author of double harness 

TRISTRAM OF BLENT 
ETC. 


I 



NEW YORK 

THE MCCLURE COMPANY 
MCMVII 









Copyright, 1907^ by Anthony Hope Hawkins 


Published, September, 1907 



(v.O 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 

SEP 18 1907 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Ambrose, Lord Lynborough .... 3 

II Largely Topographical.15 

III Of Law and Natural Rights ... 33 

IV The Message of a Padlock .... 52 

V The Beginning of War. 70 

VI Exercise Before Breakfast .... 90 

VII Another Wedge!. 110 

VIII The Marchesa Moves. 127 

IX Lynborough Drops a Catch . . . .148 

X In the Last Resort. 171 

XI An Armistice. 186 

XII An Embassage. 206 

XIII The Feast of St. John Baptist . . . 223 











v’.. 


Chapter One 


AMBROSE, LORD LYNBOROUGH 

Common opinion said that Lord Lynbor- 
ough ought never to have had a peerage and 
forty thousand a year; he ought to have had 
a pound a week and a back bedroom in 
Bloomsbury. Then he would have become an 
eminent man; as it was, he turned out only 
a singularly erratic individual. 

So much for common opinion. Let no 
more be heard of its dull utilitarian judg¬ 
ments ! There are plenty of eminent men — 
at the moment, it is believed, no less than 
seventy Cabinet and ex-Cabinet Ministers 
(or thereabouts) — to say nothing of Bis¬ 
hops, Judges, and the British Academy, — 
[3] 


Helena s Path 

and all this in a nook of the world! (And the 
world too is a point!) Lynborough was 
something much more uncommon; it is 
not, however, quite easy to say what. Let 
the question be postponed; perhaps the 
story itself will answer it. 

He started life — or was started in it — 
in a series of surroundings of unimpeachable 
orthodoxy — Eton, Christ Church, the Gre¬ 
nadier Guards. He left each of these schools 
of mental culture and bodily discipline, not 
under a cloud — that metaphor would be 
ludicrously inept — but in an explosion. 
That, having been thus shot out of the first, 
he managed to enter the second — that, 
having been shot out of the second, he 
walked placidly into the third — that, having 
been shot out of the third, he suffered no 
apparent damage from his repeated propul¬ 
sions — these are matters explicable only 

[4] 


Ambrose, Lord Lynborough 
by a secret knowledge of British institutions. 
His father was strong, his mother came of 
stock even stronger; he himself — Ambrose 
Caverly as he then was — was very popular, 
and extraordinarily handsome in his un¬ 
usual outlandish style. 

His father being still alive — and, though 
devoted to him, by now apprehensive of 
his doings — his means were for the next 
few years limited. Yet he contrived to em¬ 
ploy himself. He took a soup-kitchen and 
ran it; he took a yacht and sank it; he took a 
public-house, ruined it, and got himself 
severely fined for watering the beer in the 
Temperance interest. This injustice rankled 
in him deeply, and seems to have perma¬ 
nently influenced his development. For a 
time he forsook the world and joined a sect 
of persons who called themselves “Theo- 
philanthropists” — and surely no man could 

[ 5 ] 


Helena’s Path 

call himself much more than that ? Return¬ 
ing to mundane affairs, he refused to pay 
his rates, stood for Parliament in the Socialist 
interest, and, being defeated, declared him¬ 
self a practical follower of Count Tolstoi. 
His father advising a short holiday, he 
went off and narrowly escaped being shot 
somewhere in the Balkans, owing to his 
having taken too keen an interest in local 
politics. (He ought to have been shot; he 
was clear — and even vehement — on that 
point in a letter which he wrote to The 
Times.) Then he sent for Leonard Stabb, 
disappeared in company with that gentle¬ 
man, and was no more seen for some years. 

He could always send for Stabb, so faith¬ 
ful was that learned student’s affection for 
him. A few years Ambrose Caverly’s senior, 
Stabb had emerged late and painfully from a 
humble origin and a local grammar school, 
[ 6 ] 


Ambrose, Lord Lynborough 
bad gone up to Oxford as a non-collegiate 
man, had gained a first-class and a fellow¬ 
ship, and had settled down to a life of re¬ 
search. Early in his career he became known 
by the sobriquet of “Cromlech Stabb” — 
even his unlearned friends would call him 
“Cromlech’’ oftener than by any other 
name. His elaborate monograph on crom¬ 
lechs had earned him the title; subsequently 
he extended his researches to other relics of 
ancient religions — or ancient forms of 
religion, as he always preferred to put it; 
“there being,” he would add, with the sim¬ 
plicity of erudition beaming through his 
spectacles on any auditor, orthodox or other, 
“of course, only one religion. ” He was a very 
large stout man; his spectacles were large 
too. He was very strong, but by no means 
mobile. Ambrose’s father regarded Stabb’s 
companionship as a certain safeguard to his 
[7] 


Helena s Path 

heir. The validity of this idea is doubtful. 
Students have so much curiosity — and so 
many diverse scenes and various types of 
humanity can minister to that appetite of the 
mind. 

Occasional rumors about Ambrose Cav- 
erly reached his native shores; he was heard 
of in Morocco, located in Spain, familiar 
in North and in South America. Once he 
was not heard of for a year; his father and 
friends concluded that he must be dead — 
or in prison. Happily the latter explanation 
proved correct. Once more he and the law 
had come to loggerheads; when he emerged 
from confinement he swore never to employ 
on his own account an instrument so hateful. 

“ A gentleman should fight his own battles. 
Cromlech,” he cried to his friend. “I did no 
more than put a bullet in his arm — in a 
fair encounter — and he let me go to prison!” 

[ 8 ] 


Ambrose, Lord Lynborough 

“ Monstrous! ” Stabb agreed with a smile. 
He had passed the year in a dirty little inn 
by the prison gate — among scoundrels, but 
fortunately in the vicinity of some mounds 
distinctly prehistoric. 

Old Lord Lynborough’s death occurred 
suddenly and unexpectedly, at a moment 
when Ambrose and his companion could not 
be found. They were somewhere in Peru — 
Stabb among the Incas, Ambrose probably 
in less ancient company. It was six months 
before the news reached them. 

“I must go home and take up my re¬ 
sponsibilities, Cromlech,” said the new 
Lord Lynborough. 

“You really think you’d better ?” queried 
Stabb doubtfully. 

“It was my father’s wish.” 

“ Oh, well — ! But you’ll be thought odd 
over there, Ambrose.” 

[ 9 ] 


Helena s Path 

“ Odd ? I odd ? What the deuce is there 
odd about me, Cromlech ?” 

“Everything.” The investigator stuck his 
cheroot back in his mouth. 

Lynborough considered dispassionately 
— as he fain would hope. “I don’t see 
it.” 

That was the difficulty. Stabb was well 
aware of it. A man who is odd, and knows it, 
may be proud, but he will be careful; he 
may swagger, but he will take precautions. 
Lynborough had no idea that he was odd; 
he followed his nature — in all its impulses 
and in all its whims — with equal fidelity 
and simplicity. This is not to say that he was 
never amused at himself; every intelligent 
observer is amused at himself pretty often; 
but he did not doubt merely because he was 
amused. He took his entertainment over his 
own doings as a bonus life offered. A great 
[ 10 ] 


Ambrose, Lord Lynhorough 
sincerity of action and of feeling was his 
predominant characteristic. 

“Besides, if I’m odd,” he went on with a 
laugh, “it won’t be noticed. I’m going to 
bury myself at Scarsmoor for a couple of 
years at least. I’m thinking of writing an 
autobiography. You’ll come with me. Crom¬ 
lech ?” 

“I must be totally undisturbed,” Stabb 
stipulated. “I’ve a great deal of material to 
get into shape.” 

“There’ll be nobody there but myself — 
and a secretary, I daresay.” 

“A secretary.^ What’s that for?” 

“To write the book, of course.” 

“Oh, I see,” said Stabb, smiling in a slow 
fat fashion. “You won’t write your auto¬ 
biography yourself ?” 

“Not unless I find it very engrossing.” 

“Well, I’ll come,” said Stabb. 

[ 11 ] 


Helena s Path 

So home they came — an unusual-looking 
pair — Stabb with his towering bulky frame, 
his big goggles, his huge head with its scanty 
black locks encircling a face like a harvest 
moon — Lynborough, tall, too, but lean 
as a lath, with tiny feet and hands, a rare 
elegance of carriage, a crown of chestnut hair, 
a long straight nose, a waving mustache, a 
chin pointed like a needle and scarcely 
thickened to the eye by the close-cropped, 
short, pointed beard he wore. His bright 
hazel eyes gleamed out from his face with an 
attractive restlessness that caught away a 
stranger’s first attention even from the rare 
beauty of the lines of his head and fac^f; it 
was regularity over-refined, sharpened al¬ 
most to an outline of itself. But his appear¬ 
ance tempted him to no excesses of costume; 
he had always despised that facile path to a 
barren eccentricity. On every occasion he 
[ 12 ] 


Ambrose, Lord lAjnhorough 
wore what all men of breeding were wearing, 
yet invested the prescribed costume with the 
individuality of his character: this, it seems, 
is as near as the secret of dressing well can 
be tracked. 

His manner was not always deemed so 
free from affectation; it was, perhaps, a 
little more self-conscious; it was touched 
with a foreign courtliness, and he employed, 
on occasions of any ceremony or in inter¬ 
course with ladies, a certain formality of 
speech; it was said of him by an observant 
woman that he seemed to be thinking in a 
language more ornate and picturesque than 
his tongue employed. He was content to say 
the apt thing, not striving after wit; he was 
more prone to hide a joke than to tell it; 
he would ignore a victory and laugh at a 
defeat; yet he followed up the one and never 
sat down under the other, unless it were in- 
[13] 


Helena s Path 

Aided by one he loved. He liked to puzzle, 
but took no conscious pains to amuse. 

Thus he returned to his “ responsibilities. ” 
Cromlech Stabb was wondering what that 
digniAed word would prove to describe. 


[ 14 ] 


Chapter Two 


LARGELY TOPOGRAPHICAL 

Miss Gilletson had been studying the local 
paper, which appeared every Saturday and 
reached Nab Grange on the following morn¬ 
ing. She uttered an exclamation, looked up 
from her small breakfast-table, and called 
over to the Marchesa’s small breakfast-table. 

“Helena, I see that Lord Lynborough 
arrived at the Castle on Friday!” 

“Did he, Jennie.?” returned the Mar- 
chesa, with no show of interest. “Have an 
egg. Colonel.?” The latter words were ad¬ 
dressed to her companion at table. Colonel 
Wenman, a handsome but bald-headed man 
of about forty. 


[ 15 ] 


Helena's Path 

“ ‘Lord Lynborough, accompanied by 
his friend Mr. Leonard Stabb, the well- 
known authority on prehistoric remains? 
and Mr. Roger Wilbraham, his private 
secretary. His lordship’s household had 
preceded him to the Castle.’ ” 

Lady Norah Mountliffey — who sat with 
Miss Gilletson — was in the habit of saying 
what she thought. What she said now was* 
“Thank goodness!” and she said it rather 
loudly. 

“You gentlemen haven’t been amusing 
Norah,” observed the Marchesa to the 
Colonel. 

“I hoped that I, at least, was engaged on 
another task — though, alas, a harder one!” 
he answered in a low tone and with a glance 
of respectful homage. 

“If you refer to me, you’ve been admir¬ 
ably successful,” the Marchesa assured 
[ 16 ] 


Largely Topographical 
him graciously — only with the graciousness 
there mingled that touch of mockery which 
always made the Colonel rather ill at ease. 
“Amuse” is, moreover, a word rich in shades 
of meaning. 

Miss Gilletson was frowning thoughtfully. 
“ Helena can’t call on him — and I don’t 
suppose he’ll call on her,” she said to 
Norah. 

“He’ll get to know her if he wants to.” 

“I might call on him,” suggested the 
Colonel. “He was in the service, you know, 
and that — er — makes a bond. Queer 
fellow he was, by Jove!” 

Captain Irons and Mr. Stillford came in 
from riding, late for breakfast. They com¬ 
pleted the party at table, for Violet Dufaure 
always took the first meal of the day in 
bed. Irons was a fine young man, still in the 
twenties, very fair and very bronzed. He 
[ 17 ] 


Helenas Path 

had seen fighting and was great at polo. 
Stillford, though a man of peace (if a 
solicitor may so be called), was by no means 
inferior in physique. A cadet of a good 
county family, he was noted in the hunting 
field and as a long-distance swimmer. He 
had come to Nab Grange to confer with the 
Marchesa on her affairs, but, proving him¬ 
self an acquisition to the party, had been 
pressed to stay on as a guest. 

The men began to bandy stories of Lyn- 
borough from one table to the other. Wen- 
man knew the London gossip, Stillford the 
local traditions: but neither had seen the 
hero of their tales for many years. The anec¬ 
dotes delighted Norah Mountliffey, and 
caused Miss Gilletson’s hands to fly up in 
horror. Nevertheless it was Miss Gilletson 
who said, “Perhaps we shall see him at 
church to-day.” 


[ 18 ] 


Largely Topographical 
‘‘Not likely!” Stillford opined. “And — 
er — is anybody going 

The pause which habitually follows this 
question ensued upon it now. Neither the 
Marchesa nor Lady Norah would go — they 
were both of the Old Church. Miss Dufaure 
was unlikely to go, by reason of fatigue. 
Miss Gilletson would, of course, go, so 
would Colonel Wenman — but that was so 
well known that they didn’t speak. 

“Any ladies with Lynborough’s party, I 
wonder!” Captain Irons hazarded. “I think 
I’ll go! Stillford, you ought to go to church — 
family solicitor and all that, eh 

A message suddenly arrived from Miss 
Dufaure, to say that she felt better and 
proposed to attend church — could she be 
sent ? 

“The carriage is going anyhow,” said 
Miss Gilletson a trifle stifliy. 

[ 19 ] 


Helena's Path 

“ Yes, I suppose I ought, ” Stillford agreed. 
“We’ll drive there and walk back ?” 

“Right you are!” said the Captain. 

By following the party from Nab Grange 
to Fillby parish church, a partial idea of the 
locality would be gained; but perhaps it is 
better to face the complete task at once. 
Idle tales suit idle readers; a history such as 
this may legitimately demand from those 
who study it some degree of mental applica¬ 
tion. 

If, then, the traveler lands from the North 
Sea (which is the only sea he can land from) 
he will find himself on a sandy beach, 
dipping rapidly to deep water and well 
adapted for bathing. As he stands facing in¬ 
land, the sands stretch in a long line souther¬ 
ly on his left; on his right rises the bold 
bluff of Sandy Nab with its swelling outline, 
its grass-covered dunes, and its sparse firs; 

[ 20 ] 


Largely Topogra'phical 
directly in front of him, abutting on the 
beach, is the high wall inclosing the Grange 
property; a gate in the middle gives access 
to the grounds. The Grange faces south, and 
lies in the shelter of Sandy Nab. In front of 
it are pleasure-grounds, then a sunk fence, 
then spacious meadow-lands. The property 
is about a mile and a half (rather more 
than less) in length, to half-a-mile in breadth. 
Besides the Grange there is a small farm¬ 
house, or bailiff’s house, in the southwest 
corner of the estate. On the north the 
boundary consists of moorlands, to the east 
(as has been seen) of the beach, to the west 
and south of a public road. At the end of the 
Grange walls this road turns to the right, 
inland, and passes by Fillby village; it then 
develops into the highroad to Easthorpe 
with its market, shops, and station, ten miles 
away. Instead, however, of pursuing this 
[ 21 ] 


Helena s Path 

longer route, the traveler from the Grange 
grounds may reach Fillby and Easthorpe 
sooner by crossing the road on the west, and 
traversing the Scarsmoor Castle property, 
across which runs a broad carriage road, 
open to the public. He will first — after 
entering Lord Lynborough’s gates — pass 
over a bridge which spans a little river, often 
nearly dry, but liable to be suddenly flooded 
by a rainfall in the hills. Thus he enters a 
beautiful demesne, rich in wood and under¬ 
growth, in hill and valley, in pleasant rides 
and winding drives. The Castle itself — an 
ancient gray building, square and massive, 
stands on an eminence in the northwest 
extremity of the property; the ground drops 
rapidly in front of it, and it commands a 
view of Nab Grange and the sea beyond, 
being in its turn easily visible from either of 
these points. The road above mentioned, on 
[ ] 


Largely Topographical 
leaving Lynborough’s park, runs across the 
moors in a southwesterly line to Fillby, a 
little village of some three hundred souls. 
All around and behind this, stretching to 
Easthorpe, are great rolling moors, rich in 
beauty as in opportunities for sport, yet 
cutting off the little settlement of village, 
Castle, and Grange from the outer world 
by an isolation more complete than the mere 
distance would in these days seem to entail. 
The church, two or three little shops, and 
one policeman, sum up Fillby’s resources: 
anything more, for soul’s comfort, for body’s 
supply or protection, must come across the 
moors from Easthorpe. 

One point remains — reserved to the end 
by reason of its importance. A gate has been 
mentioned as opening on to the beach from 
the grounds of Nab Grange. He who enters 
at that gate and makes for the Grange 
[ 28 ] 


Helena's Path 

follows the path for about two hundred 
yards in a straight line, and then takes a 
curving turn to the right, which in time 
brings him to the front door of the house. 
But the path goes on — growing indeed nar¬ 
rower, ultimately becoming a mere grass- 
grown track, yet persisting quite plain to 
see — straight across the meadows, about 
a hundred yards beyond the sunk fence 
which bounds the Grange gardens, and in 
full view from the Grange windows; and it 
desists not from its course till it reaches the 
rough stone wall which divides the Grange 
estate from the highroad on the west. This 
wall it reaches at a point directly opposite 
to the Scarsmoor lodge; in the wall there 
is a gate, through which the traveler must 
pass to gain the road. 

There is a gate — and there had always 
been a gate; that much at least is undisputed. 

[ 24 ] 


Largely To'pographical 
It will, of course, be obvious that if the resi¬ 
dents at the Castle desired to reach the beach 
for the purpose of bathing or other diver¬ 
sions, and proposed to go on their feet, 
incomparably their best, shortest, and most 
convenient access thereto lay through this 
gate and along the path which crossed the 
Grange property and issued through the 
Grange gate on to the seashore. To go round 
by the road would take at least three times 
as long. Now the season was the month of 
June; Lord Lynborough was a man tenacious 
of his rights — and uncommonly fond of 
bathing. 

On the other hand, it might well be that 
the Marchesa di San Servolo — the present 
owner of Nab Grange — would prefer that 
strangers should not pass across her property, 
in full view and hail of her windows, with¬ 
out her permission and consent. That this, 
[ 25 ] 


Helena s Path 

indeed, was the lady’s attitude might be 
gathered from the fact that, on this Sunday 
morning in June, Captain Irons and Mr. 
Stillford, walking back through the Scars- 
moor grounds from Fillby church as they 
had proposed, found the gate leading from 
the road into the Grange meadows securely 
padlocked. Having ignored this possibility, 
they had to climb, incidentally displacing, 
but carefully replacing, a number of prickly 
furze branches which the zeal of the Mar- 
chesa’s bailiff had arranged along the top 
rail of the gate. 

"‘Boys been coming in?’' asked Irons. 

“It may be that,” said Stillford, smiling 
as he arranged the prickly defenses to the 
best advantage. 

The Grange expedition to church had to 
confess to having seen nothing of the Castle 
party — and in so far it was dubbed a failure. 

[ 26 ] 


Largely Topogra'phical 
There was indeed a decorous row of servants 
in the household seat, but the square oaken 
pew in the chancel, with its brass rods and 
red curtains in front, and its fireplace at the 
back, stood empty. The two men reported 
having met, as they walked home through 
Scarsmoor, a very large fat man with a face 
which they described variously, one likening 
it to the sinking sun on a misty day, the other 
to a copper saucepan. 

“Not Lord Lynborough, I do trust!” 
shuddered little Violet Dufaure. She and 
Miss Gilletson had driven home by the road, 
regaining the Grange by the south gate and 
the main drive. 

Stillford was by the Marchesa. He spoke 
to her softly, covered by the general conver¬ 
sation. “You might have told us to take a 
key!” he said reproachfully. “That gorse 
is very dangerous to a man’s Sunday clothes. ” 
[ 27 ] 


Helena^s Path 

“It looks — businesslike, doesn’t it she 
smiled. 

“Oh, uncommon! When did you have it 
done 

“The day before yesterday. I wanted 
there to be no mistake from the very first. 
That’s the best way to prevent any unpleas¬ 
antness.” 

“Possibly.” Stillford sounded doubtful. 
“ Going to have a notice-board, Marchesa 

“He will hardly make that necessary, 
will he 

“Well, I told you that in my judgment 
your right to shut it against him is very 
doubtful.” 

“You told me a lot of things I didn’t 
understand,” she retorted rather pettishly. 

He shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. 
No good lay in anticipating trouble. Lord 
Lynborough might take no notice. 

[ 28 ] 


Largely Topographical 
In the afternoon the Marchesa’s guests 
played golf on a rather makeshift nine-hole 
course laid out in the meadows. Miss Gillet- 
son slept. The Marchesa herself mounted 
the top of Sandy Nab, and reviewed her 
situation. The Colonel would doubtless have 
liked to accompany her, but he was not 
thereto invited. 

Helena Vittoria Maria Antonia, Mar¬ 
chesa di San Servolo, was now in her twenty- 
fourth year. Born of an Italian father and an 
English mother, she had bestowed her hand 
on her paternal country, but her heart re¬ 
mained in her mother’s. The Marchese 
took her as his second wife and his last 
pecuniary resource; in both capacities she 
soothed his declining years. Happily for her 

— and not unhappily for the world at large 

— these were few. He had not time to absorb 
her youth or to spend more than a small 

[ 29 ] 


Helena s Path 

portion of her inheritance. She was left 
a widow — stepmother of adult Italian 
offspring — owner for life of an Apennine 
fortress. She liked the fortress much, but 
disliked the stepchildren (the youngest was of 
her own age) more. England — her mother’s 
home — presented itself in the light of a 
refuge. In short, she had grave doubts about 
ever returning to Italy. 

Nab Grange was in the market. Ances¬ 
trally a possession of the Caverlys (for cen¬ 
turies a noble but unennobled family in 
those parts), it had served for the family’s 
dower-house, till a bad race-meeting had in¬ 
duced the squire of the day to sell it to a Mr. 
Cross of Leeds. The Crosses held it for 
seventy years. Then the executors of the last 
Cross sold it to the Marchesa. This final 
transaction happened a year before Lyn- 
borough came home. The “Beach Path” 
L30] 


Largely Topographical 
had, as above recorded, been closed only for 
two days. 

The path was not just now in the Mar- 
chesa’s thoughts. Nothing very definite was. 
Rather, as her eyes ranged from moor to 
sea, from the splendid uniformity of the un¬ 
clouded sky to the ravishing variety of many- 
tinted earth, from the green of the Grange 
meadows (the one spot of rich emerald on 
the near coast-line, owing its hues to Sandy 
Nab’s kindly shelter) to the gray mass of 
Scarsmoor Castle — there was in her heart 
that great mixture of content and longing 
that youth and — (what put bluntly amounts 
to) — a fine day are apt to raise. And youth 
allied with beauty becomes self-assertive, 
a claimant against the world, a plaintiff 
against facts before High Heaven’s tribunal. 
The Marchesa was infinitely delighted with 
Nab Grange — graciously content with Na- 
[ 31 ] 


Helena’s Path 

ture — not ill-pleased with herself — but, 
in fine, somewhat discontented with her 
company. That was herself ? Not precisely, 
though, at the moment, objectively. She 
was wondering whether her house-party 
was all that her youth and her beauty — to 
say nothing of her past endurance of the 
Marchese — entitled her to claim and to 
enjoy. 

Then suddenly across her vision, cutting 
the sky-line, seeming to divide for a moment 
heaven above from earth beneath, passed 
a tall meager figure, and a head of lines clean 
as if etched by a master’s needle. The profile 
stood as carved in fine ivory; glints of color 
flashed from hair and beard. The man softly 
sang a love song as he walked — but he 
never looked toward the Marchesa. 

She sat up suddenly. “ Could that be Lord 
Lynborough ” she thought — and smiled. 

[ 32 ] 


Chapter Three 


OF LAW AND NATURAL RIGHTS 

Lynborough sat on the terrace which ran 
along the front of the Castle and looked 
down, over Nab Grange, to the sea. With 
him were Leonard Stabb and Roger Wil- 
braham. The latter was a rather short, 
slight man of dark complexion; although a 
light-weight he was very wiry and a fine 
boxer. His intellectual gifts corresponded 
well with his physical equipment; an acute 
ready mind was apt to deal with every-day 
problems and pressing necessities; it had 
little turn either for speculation or for fancy. 
He had dreams neither about the past, 
like Stabb, nor about present things, like 
[ 33 ] 


Helena s Path 

Lynborough. His was, in a word, the prac¬ 
tical spirit, and Lynborough could not have 
chosen a better right-hand man. 

They were all smoking; a silence had 
rested long over the party. At last Lyn¬ 
borough spoke. 

“There’s always,” he said, “something 
seductive in looking at a house when you 
know nothing about the people who live in it.” 

“But I know a good deal about them,” 
Wilbraham interposed with a laugh. “Colt- 
son’s been pumping all the village, and I’ve 
had the benefit of it.” Coltson was Lyn¬ 
borough’s own man, an old soldier who 
had been with him nearly fifteen years and 
had accompanied him on all his travels 
and excursions. 

Lynborough paid no heed; he was not the 
man to be put off his reflections by intrusive 
facts. 


[ 34 ] 


0/ Law and Natural Rights 

‘‘The blank wall of a strange house is 
like the old green curtain at the theater. It 
may rise for you any moment and show 
you — what ? Now what is there at Nab 
Grange 

“A lot of country bumpkins, I expect,” 
growled Stabb. 

“No, no,” Wilbraham protested. “I’ll 
tell you, if you like-” 

“What’s there Lynborough pursued. 
“I don’t know. You don’t know — no, you 
don’t, Roger, and you probably wouldn’t 
even if you were inside. But I like not know¬ 
ing — I don’t want to know. We won’t 
visit at the Grange, I think. We will just 
idealize it, Cromlech.” He cast his queer 
elusive smile at his friend. 

“Bosh!” said Stabb. “There’s sure to be 
a woman there — and I’ll be bound she’ll 
call on you!” 


[ 35 ] 



Helena’s Path 

“She’ll call on me? Why?” 

“Because you’re a lord,” said Stabb, 
scorning any more personal form of flattery. 

“That fortuitous circumstance should, in 
my judgment, rather afford me protection.” 

“ If you come to that, she’s somebody her¬ 
self.” Wilbraham’s knowledge would bubble 
out, for all the want of encouragement. 

“Everybody’s somebody,” murmured 
Lynborough — “ and it is a very odd ar¬ 
rangement. Can’t be regarded as permanent, 
eh. Cromlech ? Immortality by merit seems 
a better idea. And by merit I mean originality. 
Well — I sha’n’t know the Grange, but I like 
to look at it. The way I picture her-” 

“Picture whom?” asked Stabb. 

“Why, the Lady of the Grange, to be 
sure-” 

“Tut, tut, who’s thinking of the wo¬ 
man ? — if there is a woman at all.” 

[ 36 ] 




0/ Law and Natural Rights 
“ I am thinking of the woman, Cromlech, 
and I’ve a perfect right to think of her. At 
least, if not of that woman, of a woman — 
whose like I’ve never met.” 

“ She must be of an unusual type, ” opined 
Stabb with a reflective smile. 

“ She is. Cromlech. Shall I describe her ?” 
“ I expect you must. ” 

“ Yes, at this moment — with the evening 
just this color — and the Grange down 
there — and the sea. Cromlech, so remark¬ 
ably large, I’m afraid I must. She is, of 
course, tall and slender; she has, of course, a 
rippling laugh; her eyes are, of course, 
deep and dreamy, yet lighting to a sparkle 
when one challenges. All this may be pre¬ 
supposed. It’s her tint. Cromlech, her color 
— that’s what’s in my mind to-night; that, 
you will find, is her most distinguishing, 
her most wonderful characteristic.” 

[ 87 ] 


Helena s Path 

“That’s just what the Vicar told Coltson! 
At least he said that the Marchesa had a 
most extraordinary complexion.” Wilbra- 
ham had got something out at last. 

“ Roger, you bring me back to earth. You 
substitute the Vicar’s impression for my 
imagination. Is that kind 

“It seems such a funny coincidence.” 

“ Supposing it to be a mere coincidence — 
no doubt! But I’ve always known that I had 
to meet that complexion somewhere. If here 
— so much the better!” 

“I have a great doubt about that,” said 
Leonard Stabb. 

“I can get over, it Cromlech! At least 
consider that.” 

“But you’re not going to know her!” 
laughed Wilbraham. 

“I shall probably see her as we walk 
down to bathe by Beach Path.” 

[ 38 ] 


0/ Law and Natural Rights 

A deferential voice spoke from behind 
his chair. “ I beg your pardon, my lord, but 
Beach Path is closed.” Coltson had brought 
Lynborough his cigar-case and laid it down 
on a table by him as he communicated this 
intelligence. 

“Closed, Coltson 

“Yes, my lord. There’s a padlock on the 
gate, and a — er — barricade of furze. And 
the gardeners tell me they were warned off 
yesterday.” 

“ My gardeners warned off Beach 
Path .?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“By whose orders .^” 

“Her Excellency’s, my lord.” 

“ That’s the Marchesa — Marchesa di 
San Servolo,” Wilbraham supplied. 

“Yes, that’s the name, sir,” said Coltson 
respectfully. 


[ 39 ] 


Ilelena^s Path 

“What about her complexion now, Am¬ 
brose?” chuckled Stabb. 

“ The Marchesa di San Servolo ? Is that 
right, Coltson?” 

“Perfectly correct, my lord. Italian, I 
understand, my lord.” 

“Excellent, excellent! She has closed my 
Beach Path ? I think I have reflected enough 
for to-night. I’ll go in and write a letter.” 
He rose, smiled upon Stabb, who himself 
was grinning broadly, and walked through 
an open window into the house. 

“Now you may see something happen,” 
said Leonard Stabb. 

“ What’s the matter ? Is it a public path ?” 
asked Wilbraham. 

With a shrug Stabb denied all know¬ 
ledge — and, probably, all interest. Coltson, 
who had lingered behind his master, under¬ 
took to reply. 


[ 40 ] 


Of Law and N atural Rights 

“Not exactly public, as I understand, sir. 
But the Castle has always used it. Green — 
that’s the head-gardener — tells me so, at 
least.” 

“By legal right, do you meanWilbra- 
ham had been called to the Bar, although he 
had never practised. No situation gives rise 
to greater confidence on legal problems. 

“I don’t think you’ll find that his lordship 
will trouble much about that, sir,” was 
Coltson’s answer, as he picked up the cigar- 
case again and hurried into the library with 
it. 

“What does the man mean by that.^^” 
asked Wilbraham scornfully. “It’s a purely 
legal question — Lynborough must trouble 
about it.” He rose and addressed Stabb 
somewhat as though that gentleman were 
the Court. “ Not a public right of way ? 
We don’t argue that ? Then it’s a case of 
[ 41 ] 


Helena's Path 

dominant and servient tenement — a right 
of way by user as of right, or by a lost grant. 
That — or nothing!” 

‘T daresay,” muttered Stabb very ab¬ 
sently. 

“Then what does Coltson mean- 

“ Coltson knows Ambrose — you don’t. 
Ambrose will never go to law — but he’ll 
go to bathe.” 

“ But she’ll go to law if he goes to bathe!” 
cried the lawyer. 

Stabb blinked lazily, and seemed to loom 
enormous over his cigar. “ I daresay — if 
she’s got a good case,” said he. “Do you 
know, Wilbraham, I don’t much care 
whether she does or not ? But in regard to 
her complexion-” 

“ What the devil does her complexion 
matter.^” shouted Wilbraham. 

“ The human side of a thing always 
[ 42 ] 




Of Law and Natural Rights 
matters,’’ observed Leonard Stabb. ‘‘For 
instance — pray sit down, Wilbraham — 
standing up and talking loud prove nothing, 
if people would only believe it — the per¬ 
manence of hierarchical systems may be 
historically observed to bear a direct relation 
to the emoluments.” 

“ Would you mind telling me your opinion 
on two points, Stabb ? We can go on with 
that argument of yours afterward.” 

“Say on, Wilbraham.” 

“Is Lynborough in his right senses ?” 

“The point is doubtful.” 

“Are you in yours 

Stabb reflected. “ I am sane — but very 
highly specialized,” was his conclusion. 

Wilbraham wrinkled his brow. “All the 
same, right of way or no right of way is 
purely a legal question,” he persisted. 

“I think you’re highly specialized too,” 
[ 43 ] 


Helena^s Path 

said Stabb. “ But you’d better keep quiet and 
see it through, you know. There may be 
some fun — it will serve to amuse the Arch¬ 
deacon when you write.” Wilbraham’s 
father was a highly esteemed dignitary of 
the order mentioned. 

Lynborough came out again, smoking a 
cigar. His manner was noticeably more 
alert: his brow was unclouded, his whole 
mien tranquil and placid. 

“I’ve put it all right,” he observed. “I’ve 
written her a civil letter. Will you men bathe 
to-morrow .?” 

\ They both assented to the proposition. 

“Very well. We’ll start at eight. We may 
as well walk. By Beach Path it’s only about 
half-a-mile. ” 

“But the path’s stopped, Ambrose,” 
Stabb objected. 

“I’ve asked her to have the obstruction 
[ 44 ] 


0/ Law and Natural Rights 
removed before eight o’clock,” Lynborough 
explained. 

“If it isn’t asked Roger Wilbraham. 
“We have hands,” answered Lynborough, 
looking at his own very small ones. 

“Wilbraham wants to know why you 
don’t go to law, Ambrose.” 

Lord Lynborough never shrank from ex¬ 
plaining his views and convictions. 

“The law disgusts me. So does my ex¬ 
perience of it. You remember the beer. 
Cromlech ? Nobody ever acted more wisely 
or from better motives. And if I made money 

— as I did, till the customers left off coming 

— why not ? I was unobtrusively doing good. 
Then Juanita’s affair! I acted as a gentle¬ 
man is bound to act. Result — a year’s 
imprisonment! I lay stress on these personal 
experiences, but not too great stress. The 
law, Roger, always considers what you have 

[ 45 ] 



Helena s Path 

had and what you now have — never what 
you ought to have. Take that path! It 
happens to be a fact that my grandfather, 
and my father, and I have always used that 
path. That’s important by law, I dare¬ 
say -” 

‘‘Certainly, Lord Lynborough.” 

“Just what would be important by law!’’ 
commented Lynborough. “And I have 
made use of the fact in my letter to the 
Maichesa. But in my own mind I stand on 
reason and natural right. Is it reasonable 
that I, living half-a-mile from my bathing, 
should have to walk two miles to get to it ? 
Plainly not. Isn’t it the natural right of the 
owner of Scarsmoor to have that path open 
through Nab Grange ? Plainly yes. That, 
Roger, although, as I say, not the shape in 
which I have put the matter before the Mar- 
chesa — because she, being a woman, would 
[ 46 ] 


Of Law and Natural Rights 
be unappreciative of pure reason — is really 
the way in which the question presents it¬ 
self to my mind — and, I’m sure, to Crom¬ 
lech’s ?” 

“Not the least in the world to mine,” said 
Stabb. “ However, Ambrose, the young man 
thinks us both mad.” 

“You do, Roger His smile persuaded 
to an aflSrmative reply. 

“I’m afraid so. Lord Lynborough.” 

“No ‘Lord,’ if you love me! Why do you 
think me mad ? Cromlech, of course, is mad, 
so we needn’t bother about him.” 

“You’re not — not practical,” stammered 
Roger. 

“Oh, I don’t know, really I don’t know. 
You’ll see that I shall get that path open. 
And in the end I did get that public-house 
closed. And Juanita’s husband had to leave 
the country, owing to the heat of local feeling 
[ 47 ] 


Helena's Path 

— aroused entirely by me. Juanita stayed 
behind and, after due formalities, married 
again most happily. I’m not altogether in¬ 
clined to call myself unpractical. Roger! ’ ’ 
He turned quickly to his secretary. “Your 
father’s what they call a High Churchman, 
isn’t he 

“Yes — and so am I,” said Roger. 

“He has his Church. He puts that above 
the State, doesn’t he ? He wouldn’t obey the 
State against the Church ? He wouldn’t 
do what the Church said was wrong because 
the State said it was right 

“How could he ? Of course he wouldn’t,” 
answered Roger. 

“ Well, I have my Church — inside here. ” 
He touched his breast. “I stand where your 
father does. Why am I more mad than the 
Archdeacon, Roger 

“But there’s all the difference!” 

[ 48 ] 


0/ Law and Natural Rights 

“Of course there is,” said Stabb. “All the 
difference that there is between being able 
to do it and not being able to do it — and I 
know of none so profound.” 

“There’s no difference at all,” declared 
Lynborough. “Therefore — as a good son, 
no less than as a good friend — you will 
come and bathe with me to-morrow 

“Oh, I’ll come and bathe, by all means, 
Lynborough. ” 

“By all means! Well said, young man. By 
all means, that is, which are becoming in 
opposing a lady. What precisely those may 
be we well consider when we see the strength 
of her opposition.” 

“That doesn’t sound so very unpractical, 
after all,” Stabb suggested to Roger. 

Lynborough took his stand before Stabb, 
hands in pockets, smiling down at the bulk 
of his friend. 


[ 49 ] 


Helena’s Path 

“O Cromlech, Haunter of Tombs,” he 
said, “ Cromlech, Lover of Men long Dead, 
there is a possible — indeed a probable — 
chance — there is a divine hope — that Life 
may breathe here on this coast, that the 
blood may run quick, that the world may 
move, that our old friend Fortune may 
smile, and trick, and juggle, and favor us 
once more. This, Cromlech, to a man who 
had determined to reform, who came home 
to assume — what was it ? Oh yes — re¬ 
sponsibilities ! — this is most extraordinary 
luck. Never shall it be said that Ambrose 
Caverly, being harnessed and carrying a 
bow, turned himself back in the day of 
battle!” 

He swayed himself to and fro on his heels, 
and broke into merry laughter. 

“She’ll get the letter to-night. Cromlech. 
I’ve sent Coltson down with it — he pro- 
[ 50 ] 


Of Law and Natural Rights 
ceeds decorously by the highroad and the 
main approach. But she’ll get it. Cromlech, 
will she read it with a beating heart ? Will 
she read it with a flushing cheek ? And if so. 
Cromlech, what, I ask you, will be the 
particular shade of that particular flush 
“ Oh, the sweetness of the game!” said he. 
Over Nab Grange the stars seemed to 
twinkle roguishly. 


[ 51 ] 


Chapter Four 


THE MESSAGE OF A PADLOCK 

Lord Lynborough presents his compliments to her Ex¬ 
cellency the Marchesa di San Servolo. Lord Lynborough 
has learnt, with surprise and regret, that his servants have 
within the last two days been warned off Beach Path, and 
that a padlock and other obstacles have been placed on 
the gate leading to the path, by her Excellency’s orders. 
Lord Lynborough and his predecessors have enjoyed the 
use of this path by themselves, their agents and servants, 
for many years back — certainly for fifty, as Lord Lyn¬ 
borough knows from his father and from old servants, and 
Lord Lynborough is not disposed to acquiesce in any 
obstruction being raised to his continued use of it. He 
must therefore request her Excellency to have the kindness 
to order that the padlock and other obstacles shall be 
removed, and he will be obliged by this being done before 
eight o’clock to-morrow morning — at which time Lord 
Lynborough intends to proceed by Beach Path to the sea 
in order to bathe. Scarsmoor Castle; 13th June. 

The reception of this letter proved an agree- 
[ 52 ] 


The Message of a Padlock 
able incident of an otherwise rather dull 
Sunday evening at Nab Grange. The Mar- 
chesa had been bored; the Colonel was 
sulky. Miss Gilletson had forbidden cards; 
her conscience would not allow herself, nor 
her feelings of envy permit other people, 
to play on the Sabbath. Lady Nor ah and 
Violet Dufaure were somewhat at cross¬ 
purposes, each preferring to talk to Still- 
ford and endeavoring, under a false show 
of amity, to foist Captain Irons on to the 
other. 

“Listen to this!” cried the Marchesa vi¬ 
vaciously. She read it out. “ He doesn’t beat 
about the bush, does he ? I’m to surrender 
before eight o’clock to-morrow morning!” 

“Sounds rather a peremptory sort of a 
chap!” observed Colonel Wenman. 

“I,” remarked Lady Norah, “shouldn’t 
so much as answer him, Helena.” 

[ 53 ] 


Helena s Path 

“I shall certainly answer him and tell 
him that he’ll trespass on my property at 
his peril,” said the Marchesa haughtily. 
“Isn’t that the right way to put it, Mr. 
Stillford 

“If it would be a trespass, that might be 
one way to put it,” was Stillford’s profes¬ 
sionally cautious advice. “ But as I ventured 
to tell you when you determined to put on 
the padlock, the rights in the matter are not 
quite as clear as we could wish.” 

“When I bought this place, I bought a 
private estate — a private estate, Mr. Still- 
ford — for myself — not a short cut for 
Lord Lynborough! Am I to put up a 
notice for him, ‘This Way to the Bathing- 
Machines’ 

“I wouldn’t stand it for a moment.” 
Captain Irons sounded bellicose. 

Violet Dufaure was amicably inclined. 

[ 54 ] 


The Message of a Padlock 
“You might give him leave to walk 
through. It would be a bore for him to go 
round by the road every time.’’ 

“Certainly I might give him leave if he 
asked for it,” retorted the Marchesa rather 
sharply. “But he doesn’t. He orders me to 
open my gate — and tells me he means to 
bathe! As if I cared whether he bathed or 
not! What is it to me, I ask you, Violet, 
whether the man bathes or not ?” 

“ I beg your pardon, Marchesa, but aren’t 
you getting a little off the point Stillford 
intervened deferentially. 

“No, I’m not. I never get off the point, 
Mr. Stillford. Do I, Colonel Wenman 
“ I’ve never known you to do it in my life, 
Marchesa.” There was, in fact, as Lynbor- 
ough had ventured to anticipate, a flush on 
the Marchesa’s cheek, and the Colonel 
knew his place. 


[ 55 ] 


Helena s Path 


“There, Mr. Stillfordshe cried trium¬ 
phantly. Then she swept — the expression 
is really applicable — across the room to her 
writing-table. “I shall be courteous, but 
quite decisive,” she announced over her 
shoulder as she sat down. 

Stillford stood by the fire, smiling doubt¬ 
fully. Evidently it was no use trying to stop 
the Marchesa; she had insisted on locking 
the gate, and she would persist in keeping 
it locked till she was forced, by process of 
law or otherwise, to open it again. But if the 
Lords of Scarsmoor Castle really had used 
it without interruption for fifty years (as 
Lord Lynborough asserted) —well, the Mar- 
chesa’s rights were at least in a precarious 
position. 

The Marchesa came back with her letter 
in her hand. 

“ ‘ The Marchesa di San Servolo,’ ” she read 
[56] 


The Message of a Padlock 
out to an admiring audience, “ ‘presents 
her compliments to Lord Lynborough. The 
Marchesa has no intention of removing the 
padlock and other obstacles which have 
been placed on the gate to prevent trespass¬ 
ing — either by Lord Lynborough or by 
anybody else. The Marchesa is not con¬ 
cerned to know Lord Lynborough’s plans in 
regard to bathing or otherwise. Nab Grange; 
13th June.’ ” 

The Marchesa looked round on her friends 
with a satisfied air. 

“I call that good,” she remarked. “Don’t 
you, Norah ?” 

“I don’t like the last sentence.” 

“Oh yes! Why, that’ll make him an¬ 
grier than anything else! Please ring the 
bell for me, Mr. Stillford; it’s just behind 
you.” 

The butler came back. 

[57] 


Helena^s Path 

“Who brought Lord Lynborough’s let¬ 
ter?” asked the Marchesa. 

“I don’t know who it is, your Excellency 
— one of the upper servants at the Castle, 
I think. ’ 

“How did he come to the house ?” 

“ By the drive — from the south gate — I 
believe, your Excellency.” 

“I’m glad of that,” she declared, looking 
positively dangerous. “Tell him to go back 
the same way, and not by the — by what 
Lord Lynborough chooses to call ‘Beach 
Path.’ Here’s a letter for him to take.” 

“ Very good, your Excellency. ” The butler 
received the letter and withdrew. 

“Yes,” said Lady Norah, “rather funny 
he should call it Beach Path, isn’t it ?” 

“I don’t know whether it’s funny or not, 
Norah, but I do know that I don’t care what 
he calls it. He may call it Piccadilly if he 
[ 58 ] 


The Message of a Padlock 
likes, but it’s my path all the same.” As she 
spoke she looked, somewhat defiantly, at 
Mr. Stillford. 

Violet Dufaure, whose delicate frame held 
an indomitable and indeed pugnacious spirit, 
appealed to Stillford; “Can’t Helena have 
him taken up if he trespasses 

“ Well, hardly. Miss Dufaure. The remedy 
would lie in the civil courts.” 

“ Shall I bring an action against him ? Is 
that it ? Is that right cried the Marchesa. 

“That’s the ticket, eh, Stillford asked 
the Colonel. 

Stillford’s position was difficult; he had 
the greatest doubt about his client’s case. 

“Suppose you leave him to bring the 
action he suggested. “When he does, we 
can fully consider our position.” 

“But if he insists on using the path to¬ 
morrow 


[ 59 ] 


Ilelena^s Path 

“He’ll hardly do that,” Stillford per¬ 
suaded her. “You’ll probably get a letter 
from him, asking for the name of your 
solicitor. You will give him my name; I 
shall obtain the name of his solicitor, and 
we shall settle it between us — amicably, I 
hope, but in any case without further per¬ 
sonal trouble to you, Marchesa.” 

“ Oh! ” said the Marchesa blankly. “ That’s 
how it will be, will it 

“ That’s the usual course — the proper 
way of doing the thing.” 

“It may be proper; it sounds very dull, 
Mr. Stillford. What if he does try to use the 
path to-morrow — ‘ in order to bathe’ as 
he’s good enough to tell me .^” 

“If you’re right about the path, then 
you’ve the right to stop him,” Stillford an¬ 
swered rather reluctantly. “If you do stop 
him, that, of course, raises the question in a 
[ 60 ] 


The Message of a Padlock 
concrete form. You will offer a formal re¬ 
sistance. He will make a formal protest. 
Then the lawyers step in.” 

“ We always end with the lawyers — and 
my lawyer doesn't seem sure I’m right!” 

“Well, I’m not sure,” said Stillford 
bluntly. “It’s impossible to be sure at this 
stage of the case.” 

“For all I see, he may use my path to¬ 
morrow!” The Marchesa was justifying 
her boast that she could stick to a point. 

“Now that you’ve lodged your objection, 
that won’t matter much legally.” 

“It will annoy me intensely,” the Mar¬ 
chesa complained. 

“Then we’ll stop him,” declared Colonel 
Wenman valorously. 

“Politely — but firmly,” added Captain 
Irons. 


“And what do you say, Mr. Stillford 

[ 61 ] 


Helena's Path 

“ I’ll go with these fellows anyhow — and 
see that they don’t overstep the law. No 
more than the strictly necessary force. Col¬ 
onel!” 

“I begin to think that the law is rather 
stupid,” said the Marchesa. She thought it 
stupid; Lynborough held it iniquitous; the 
law was at a discount, and its majesty little 
reverenced, that night. 

Ultimately, however, Stillford persuaded 
the angry lady to — as he tactfully put it — 
give Lynborough a chance. “See what he 
does first. If he crosses the path now, after 
warning, your case is clear. Write to him 
again then, and tell him that, if he persists 
in trespassing, your servants have orders to 
interfere.” 

“That lets him bathe to-morrow!” Once 
more the Marchesa returned to her point — 
a very sore one. 


[ 62 ] 


The Message of a Padlock 

“Just for once, it really doesn’t matter!” 
Stillford urged. 

Reluctantly she acquiesced; the others 
were rather relieved — not because they 
objected to a fight, but because eight in the 
morning was rather early to start one. 
Breakfast at the Grange was at nine-thirty, 
and, though the men generally went down 
for a dip, they went much later than Lord 
Lynborough proposed to go. 

“ He shall have one chance of with¬ 
drawing gracefully,” the Marchesa finally 
decided. 

Stillford was unfeignedly glad to hear her 
say so; he had, from a professional point of 
view, no desire for a conflict. Inquiries which 
he had made in Fillby — both from men in 
Scarsmoor Castle employ and from inde¬ 
pendent persons — had convinced him that 
Lynborough’s case was strong. For many 
[ 63 ] 


Helena’s Path 

years — through the time of two Lyn- 
boroughs before the present at Scarsmoor, 
and through the time of three Crosses (the 
predecessors of the Marchesa) at Nab 
Grange, Scarsmoor Castle had without 
doubt asserted this dominant right over Nab 
Grange. It had been claimed and exercised 
openly — and, so far as he could discover, 
without protest or opposition. The period, 
as he reckoned it, would prove to be long 
enough to satisfy the law as to prescription; 
it was very unlikely that any document 
existed — or anyhow could be found — 
which would serve to explain away the pre¬ 
sumption which uses such as this gave. In 
fine, the Marchesa’s legal adviser was of 
opinion that in a legal fight the Marchesa 
would be beaten. His own hope lay in com¬ 
promise; if friendly relations could be estab¬ 
lished, there would be a chance of a compro- 
[ 64 ] 


The Message of a Padlock 
mise. He was sure that the Marchesa would 
readily grant as a favor — and would possibly 
give in return for a nominal payment — all 
that Lynborough asked. That would be the 
best way out of the difficulty. “Let us tem¬ 
porize, and be conciliatory, ” thought the man 
of law. 

Alas, neither conciliation nor dilatoriness 
was in Lord Lynborough’s line! He read the 
Marchesa’s letter with appreciation and 
pleasure. He admired the curtness of its 
intimation, and the lofty haughtiness with 
which the writer dismissed the subject of his 
bathing. But he treated the document — 
it cannot be said that he did wrong — as a 
plain defiance. It appeared to him that no 
further declaration of war was necessary; he 
was not concerned to consider evidence nor 
to weigh his case, as Stillford wanted to 
consider the Marchesa’s evidence and to 
[ 65 ] 


Helena's Path 

weigh her case. This for two reasons: first, 
because he was entirely sure that he was 
right; secondly because he had no intention 
of bringing the question to trial. Lynbor- 
ough knew but one tribunal; he had pointed 
out its local habitation to Roger Wilbraham. 

Accordingly it fell out that conciliatory 
counsels and Fabian tactics at Nab Grange 
received a very severe — perhaps indeed a 
fatal — shock the next morning. 

At about nine o’clock the Marchesa was 
sitting in her dressing-gown by the open 
window, reading her correspondence and 
sipping an early cup of tea — she had be¬ 
come quite English in her habits. Her maid 
reentered the room, carrying in her hand a 
small parcel. “For your Excellency,” she 
said. “A man has just left it at the door.” 
She put the parcel down on the marble top 
of the dressing-table. 

[ 66 ] 



The Message of a Padlock 

“What is it?” asked the Marchesa in¬ 
dolently. 

“ I don’t know, your Excellency. It’s hard, 
and very heavy for its size.” 

Laying down the letter which she had been 
perusing, the Marchesa took up the parcel 
and cut the string which bound it. With a 
metallic clink there fell on her dressing-table 
— a padlock! To it was fastened a piece of 
paper, bearing these words: “ Padlock found 
attached to gate leading to Beach Path. 
Detached by order of Lord Lynborough. 
With Lord Lynborough’s compliments.” 

Now, too, Lynborough might have got 
his flush — if he could have been there to 
see it!’ 

“Bring me my fleld-glasses!” she cried. 

The window commanded a view of the 
gardens, of the meadows beyond the sunk 
fence, of the path — Beach Path as that man 
[ 67 ] 


Helena’s Path 

was pleased to call it! — and of the gate. 
At the last-named object the enraged Mar- 
chesa directed her gaze. The barricade of 
furze branches was gone! The gate hung 
open upon its hinges! 

While she still looked, three figures came 
across the lens. A very large stout shape — 
a short spare form — a tall, lithe, very lean 
figure. They were just reaching the gate, 
coming from the direction of the sea. The 
two first were strangers to her; the third she 
had seen for a moment the afternoon before 
on Sandy Nab. It was Lynborough himself, 
beyond a doubt. The others must be friends 
— she cared not about them. But to sit here 
with the padlock before her, and see Lyn¬ 
borough pass through the gate — a meeker 
woman than she had surely been moved to 
wrath! He had bathed — as he had said he 
would. And he had sent her the padlock. 

[ 68 ] 


The Message of a Padlock 
That was what came of listening to con¬ 
ciliatory counsels, of letting herself give ear 
to dilatory persuasions! 

“War!” declared the Marchesa. “War 
— war — war! And if he’s not careful, I 
won’t confine it to the path either!” She 
seemed to dream of conquests, perhaps to 
reckon resources, whereof Mr. Stillford, her 
legal adviser, had taken no account. 

She carried the padlock down to breakfast 
with her; it was to her as a Fiery Cross; it 
summoned her and her array to battle. She 
exhibited it to her guests. 

“Now, gentlemen, I’m in your hands!” 
said she. “Is that man to walk over my 
property for his miserable bathing to¬ 
morrow ?” 

He would have been a bold man who, 
at that moment, would have answered her 
with a “Yes. ” 


[ 69 ] 


Chapter Five 


THE BEGINNING OF WAR 

An enviable characteristic of Lord Lyn- 
borough’s was that, when he had laid the 
fuse, he could wait patiently for the explo¬ 
sion. (That last word tends to recur in con¬ 
nection with him.) Provided he knew that 
his adventure and his joke were coming, 
he occupied the interval profitably — which 
is to say, as agreeably as he could. Having 
launched the padlock — his symbolical ul¬ 
timatum — and asserted his right, he spent 
the morning in dictating to Roger Wilbraham 
a full, particular, and veracious account of 
his early differences with the Dean of Christ 
Church. Roger found his task entertaining, 
[ 70 ] 


The Beginning of War 
for Lynborough’s mimicry of his distinguish¬ 
ed opponent was excellent. Stabb meanwhile 
was among the tombs in an adjacent apart¬ 
ment . 

This studious tranquillity was disturbed 
by the announcement of a call from Mr. 
Stillford. Not without difficulty he had per¬ 
suaded the Marchesa to let him reconnoiter 
the ground — to try, if it seemed desirable, 
the effect of a bit of “bluff” — at any rate 
to discover, if he could, something of the 
enemy’s plan of campaign. Stillford was, 
in truth, not a little afraid of a lawsuit! 

Lynborough denied himself to no man, 
and received with courtesy every man who 
came. But his face grew grim and his man¬ 
ner distant when Stillford discounted the 
favorable effect produced by his appear¬ 
ance and manner — also by his name, well 
known in the county — by confessing that 
[ 71 ] 


Helena s Path 

he called in the capacity of the Marchesa’s 
solicitor. 

“A solicitor?’’ said Lynborough, slightly 
raising his brows. 

“Yes. The Marchesa does me the honor 
to place her confidence in me; and it occurs 
to me that, before this unfortunate dispute 

_jj 

“ Why unfortunate ?” interrupted Lynbor¬ 
ough with an air of some surprise. 

“Surely it is — between neighbors? The 
Castle and the Grange should be friends.” 
His cunning suggestion elicited no response. 
“It occurred to me,” he continued, some¬ 
what less glibly, “that, before further an¬ 
noyance or expense was caused, it might be 
well if I talked matters over with your 
lordship’s solicitor.” 

“Sir,” said Lynborough, “saving your 
presence — which, I must beg you to re- 
[ 72 ] 



The Beginning of War 
member, was not invited by me — I don’t 
like solicitors. I have no solicitor. I shall 
never have a solicitor. You can’t talk with a 
non-existent person.” 

“But proceedings are the natural — the 
almost inevitable — result of such a situa¬ 
tion as your action has created, Lord Lyn- 
borough. My client can’t be flouted, she 
can’t have her indubitable rights outraged 

_ 55 

“Do you think they’re indubitable 
Lynborough put in, with a sudden quick 
flash of his eyes. 

For an instant Stillford hesitated. Then 
he made his orthodox reply. “ As I am in¬ 
structed, they certainly are.” 

“Ah!” said Lynborough dryly. 

“No professional man could say more 
than that. Lord Lynborough.” 

“ And they all say just as much I If I say 
[ 73 ] 



Helena^s Path 

anything you don’t like, again remember 
that this interview is not of my seeking, 
Mr. Stillford.” 

Stillford waxed a trifle sarcastic. “You’ll 
conduct your case in person ?” he asked. 

• “If you hale me to court, I shall. Other¬ 
wise there’s no question of a case. ” 

This time Stillford’s eyes brightened; yet 
still he doubted Lynborough’s meaning. 

“We shouldn’t hesitate to take our case 
into court.” 

“ Since you’re wrong, you’d probably 
win,” said Lynborough, with a smile. “But 
I’d make it cost you the devil of a lot of 
money. That, at least, the law can do — 
I’m not aware that it can do much else. 
But as far as I’m concerned, I should 
as soon appeal to the Pope of Rome in 
this matter as to a law-court — sooner in 
fact.” 


[ 74 ] 


The Beginning of War 

Stillford grew more confidently happy — 
and more amazed at Lynborough. 

“ But you’ve no right to — er — assert 
rights if you don’t intend to support them.” 

‘‘I do intend to support them, Mr. Still- 
ford. That you’ll very soon find out.” 

“By force Stillford himself was grati¬ 
fied by the shocked solemnity which he 
achieved in this question. 

“ If so, your side has no prejudice against 
legal proceedings. Prisons are not strange 
to me- 

"‘What.^^” Stillford was a little startled. 
He had not heard all the stories about Lord 
Lynborough. 

“I say, prisons are not strange to me. If 
necessary, I can do a month. I am, however, 
not altogether a novice in the somewhat 
degrading art of getting the other man to hit 
first. Then he goes to prison, doesn’t he ? 

[ 75 ] 



. Helena's Path 

Just like the law! As if that had anything 
to do with the merits!” 

Stillford kept his eye on the point valuable 
to him. “ By supporting your claim I intend¬ 
ed to convey supporting it by legal action.” 

“ Oh, the cunning of this world, the cun¬ 
ning of this world, Roger!” He flung himself 
into an arm-chair, laughing. Stillford was 
already seated. “Take a cigarette, Mr. 
Stillford. You want to know whether I’m 
going to law or not, don’t you ? Well, I’m 
not. Is there anything else you want to 
know ? Oh, by the way, we don’t abstain 
from the law because we don’t know the law. 
Permit me — Mr. Stillford, solicitor — Mr. 
Roger Wilbraham, of the Middle Temple, 
Esquire, barrister-at-law. Had I known 
you were coming, Roger should have worn 
his wig. No, no, we know the law — but 
we hate it.” 


[ 76 ] 


The Beginning of War 

Stillford was jubilant at a substantial 
gain — the appeal to law lay within the Mar- 
chesa’s choice now; and that was in his 
view a great advantage. But he was legiti¬ 
mately irritated by Lynborough’s sneers at 
his profession. 

‘‘So do most of the people who belong to 
— the people to whom prisons are not 
strange, Lord Lynborough.” 

“Apostles — and so on.^^” asked Lyn- 
borough airily. 

“I hardly recognize your lordship as be¬ 
longing to that — er — er — category. ” 

“That’s the worst of it — nobody will,” 
Lynborough admitted candidly. A note of 
sincere, if whimsical, regret sounded in his 
voice. “I’ve been trying for fifteen years. 
Yet some day I may be known as St. Am¬ 
brose!” His tones fell to despondency again. 
“ St. Ambrose the Less, though — yes, I’m 
[ 77 ] 




Helena s Path 

afraid the Less. Apostles — even Saints — 
are much handicapped in these days, Mr. 
Stillford.” 

Stillford rose to his feet. “You’ve no more 
to say to me, Lord Lynborough ?” 

“I don’t know that I ever had anything 
to say to you, Mr. Stillford. You must have 
gathered before now that I intend to use 
Beach Path.” 

“My client intends to prevent you.” 

“ Yes ? — Well, you’re three able-bodied 
men down there — so my man tells me — 
you, and the Colonel, and the Captain. 
And we’re three up here. It seems to me fair 
enough.” 

“You don’t really contemplate settling 
the matter by personal conflict.^” He was 
half amused, yet genuinely stricken in his 
habits of thought. 

“Entirely a question for your side. We 
[ 78 ] 


The Beginning of War 
shall use the path.” Lynborough cocked 
his head on one side, looking up at the sturdy 
lawyer with a mischievous amusement. “I 
shall harry you, Mr. Stillford — day and 
night I shall harry you. If you mean to keep 
me off that path, vigils will be your portion. 
And you won’t succeed.” 

“ I make a last appeal to your lord- 
ship. The matter could, I believe, be ad¬ 
justed on an amicable basis. The Marchesa 
could be prevailed upon to grant permis- 

• > j 

Sion- 

“I’d just as soon ask her permission to 
breathe,” interrupted Lynborough. 

“Then my mission is at an end.” 

“I congratulate you.” 

“I beg your pardon 

“Well, you’ve found out the chief thing 
you wanted to know, haven’t you ? If you’d 
asked it point-blank, we should have saved 




Helena's Path 

a lot of time. Good-by, Mr. Stillford. Roger, 
the bell’s in reach of your hand.” 

“You’re pleased to be amused at my 
expense.^” Stillford had grown huffy. 

“No — only don’t think you’ve been 
clever at mine, ” Lynborough retorted 
placidly. 

So they parted. Lynborough went back 
to his Dean, Stillford to the Marchesa. 
Still ruffled in his plumes, feeling that he 
had been chaffed and had made no adequate 
reply, yet still happy in the solid, the im¬ 
portant fact which he had ascertained, he 
made his report to his client. He refrained 
from openly congratulating her on not being 
challenged to a legal fight; he contented 
himself with observing that it was con¬ 
venient to be able to choose her own time 
to take proceedings. 

Lady Norah was with the Marchesa. They 

[ 80 ] 


The Beginning of War 
both listened attentively and questioned 
closely. Not the substantial points alone at¬ 
tracted their interest; Stillford was constantly 
asked — “ How did he look when he said 
that.^” He had no other answer than ‘‘Oh 
— well — er — rather queer. ” He left them, 
having received directions to rebarricade the 
gate as solidly and as offensively as possible; 
a board warning off trespassers was also 
to be erected. 

Although not apt at a description of his 
interlocutor, yet Stillford seemed to have 
conveyed an impression. 

“I think he must be delightful,” said 
Norah thoughtfully, when the two ladies 
were left together. “I’m sure he’s just the 
sort of a man I should fall in love with, 
Helena.” 

As a rule the Marchesa admired and ap¬ 
plauded Norah’s candor, praising it for a 
[ 81 ] 


Helena's Path 

certain patrician flavor — Norali spoke her 
mind, let the crowd think what it would! 
On this occasion she was somehow less 
pleased; she was even a little startled. She 
was conscious that any man with whom 
Norah was gracious enough to fall in love 
would be subjected to no ordinary assault; 
the Irish coloring is bad to beat, and Norah 
had it to perfection; moreover, the aforesaid 
candor makes matters move ahead. 

■‘After all, it’s my path he’s trespassing on, 
Norah,” the Marchesa remonstrated. 

They both began to laugh. “The wretch 
is as handsome as — as a god,” sighed 
Helena. 

“You’ve seen him.^^” eagerly questioned 
Norah; and the glimpse — that tantalizing 
glimpse — on Sandy Nab was confessed to. 

The Marchesa sprang up, clenching her 
fist. “ Norah, I should like to have that man 
[ 82 ] 


The Beginning of War 
at my feet, and then to trample on him! 
Oh, it’s not only the path! I believe he’s 
laughing at me all the time!” 

“He’s never seen you. Perhaps if he 
did he wouldn’t laugh. And perhaps you 
wouldn’t trample oi him either.” 

“Ah- but I would!” She tossed her head 
impatiently. “Well, if you want to meet 
him I expect j ou can do it — on my path 
to-morrow!” 

This talk left the Marches a vaguely 
vexed. Her feeling could not be called jeal¬ 
ousy; nothing can hardly be jealous of 
nothing, and even as her acquaintance with 
Lynborough amounted to nothing. Lady 
Norah’s also was represented by a cipher. 
But why should Norah want to know him ? 
It was the Marchesa’s path — by conse¬ 
quence t was the Marchesa’s quarrel. 
Where did Norah stand in the matter ? The 
[ 83 ] 


Helena’s Path 

Marchesa had perhaps been constructing 
a little drama. Norah took leave to introduce 
a new character! 

And not Norah alone, as it appeared at 
dinner. Little Violet Dufaure, whose ap¬ 
pealing ways were notoriously successful 
with the emotionally weaker sex, took her 
seat at table with a demurely triumphant air. 
Captain Irons reproached her, with polite 
gallantry, for having deserted the croquet 
lawn after tea. 

“ Oh, I went for a walk to Fillby — through 
Scarsmoor, you know. ” 

“Through Scarsmoor, Violet The Mar¬ 
chesa sounded rather startled again. 

“It’s a public road, you know, Helena. 
Isn’t it, Mr. Stillford.^” 

Stillford admitted that it was. “All the 
same, perhaps the less we go there at the 
present moment-” 


[ 84 ] 


The Beginning of War 

“Oh, but Lord Lynborough asked me to 
come again and to go wherever I liked — 
not to keep to the stupid road.” 

Absolute silence reigned. Violet looked 
round with a smile which conveyed a general 
appeal for sympathy; there was, perhaps, 
special reference to Miss Gilletson as the 
guardian of propriety, and to the Marchesa 
as the owner of the disputed path. 

“You see, I took Nellie, and the dear al¬ 
ways does run away. She ran after a rabbit. 
I ran after her, of course. The rabbit ran 
into a hole, and I ran into Lord Lynborough. 
Helena, he’s charming!” 

“I’m thoroughly tired of Lord Lynbor¬ 
ough,” said the Marchesa icily. 

“ He must have known I was staying with 
you, I think; but he never so much as men¬ 
tioned you. He just ignored you — the 
whole thing, I mean. Wasn’t it tactful?” 

[ 85 ] 


Helena’s Path 

Tactful it might have been; it did not ap¬ 
pear to gratify the Marchesa. 

“What a wonderful air there is about a 
— a grand seigneio!” pursued Violet re¬ 
flectively. “Such a difference it makes 

That remark did not gratify any of the 
gentlemen present; it implied a contrast, 
although it might not definitely assert one. 

“It is such a pity that you’ve quarreled 
about that silly path!” 

“Oh! oh! Miss Dufaure!” — “I say 
come, Miss Dufaure!” — “Er — really. 
Miss Dufaure!” — these three remonstran¬ 
ces may be distributed indifferently among 
the three men. They felt that there was a risk 
of treason in the camp. 

The Marchesa assumed her grandest man¬ 
ner; it was medieval — it was Titianesque. 

“ Fortunately, as it seems, Violet, I do not 
rely on your help to maintain my fights in 
[ 86 ] 


The Beginning of War 
regard to the path. Pray meet Lord Lyn- 
borough as often as you please, but spare me 
any unnecessary mention of his name.” 

“I didn’t mean any harm. It was all 
Nellie’s fault.” 

The Marchesa’s reply — if such it can be 
called — was delivered sotto voce, yet was 
distinctly audible. It was also brief. She 
said ''Nellie!’^ Nellie was, of course. Miss 
Dufaure’s dog. 

Night fell upon an apparently peaceful 
land. Yet Violet was an absentee from the 
Marchesa’s dressing-room that night, and 
even between Norah and her hostess the 
conversation showed a tendency to flag. 
Norah, for all her courage, dared not men¬ 
tion the name of Lynborough, and Helena 
most plainly would not. Yet what else was 
there to talk about ? It had come to that 
point even so early in the war! 

[ 87 ] 


Helena's Path 

Meanwhile, up at Scarsmoor Castle, L} n- 
borough, in exceedingly high spirits, talked 
to Leonard Stabb. 

“Yes, Cromlech,” he said, “a pretty 
girl, a very pretty girl if you like that 'petite 
insinuating style. For myself I prefer some¬ 
thing a shade more — what shall we call 
it?” 

“Don’t care a hang,” muttered Stabb. 

“A trifle more in the grand manner, 
perhaps. Cromlech. And she hadn’t anything 
like the complexion. I knew at once that it 
couldn’t be the Marchesa. Do you bathe to¬ 
morrow morning ? ” 

“And get my head broken ?” 

“Just stand still, and let them throw 
themselves against you. Cromlech. Roger! 

— Oh, he’s gone to bed; stupid thing to do 

— that! Cromlech, old chap, I’m enjoying 
myself immensely.” 


[ 88 ] 


The Beginning of I Far 

He just touched his old friend’s shoulder 
as he passed by: the caress was almost im¬ 
perceptible. Stabb turned his broad red 
face round to him and laughed ponderously. 

“Oh, and you understand!” cried Lyn- 
borough. 

“I have never myself objected to a bit of 
fun with the girls,” said Stabb. 

Lynborough sank into a chair murmuring 
delightedly, “You’re priceless. Cromlech!” 


[ 89 ] 


Chapter Six 


EXERCISE BEFORE BREAKFAST 

“ Life — ” (The extract is from Lynbor- 
ough’s diary, dated this same 14th of June) 
— “ may be considered as a process (Crom¬ 
lech’s view, conducting to the tomb) — a 
program (as, I am persuaded, Roger con¬ 
ceives it, marking off each stage thereof 
with a duly guaranteed stamp of perfor¬ 
mance) — or as a progress —- in which light 
I myself prefer to envisage it. Process — 
program — progress; the words, with my 
above-avowed preference, sound unimpeach¬ 
ably orthodox. Once I had a Bishop ancestor. 
He crops out. 

“Yet I don’t mean what he does. I don’t 
[90] 


Ex^'^cise Before Breakfast 
believe in growing better in the common 
sense — that is, in an increasing power to 
resist what tempts you, to refrain from doing 
what you want. That ideal seems to me, 
more and more, to start from the wrong end. 
No man refrains from doing what he wants 
to do. In the end the contradiction — the 
illogicality — is complete. You learn to 
want more wisely — that’s all. Train desire, 
for you can never chain it. 

“I’m engaged here and now on what is 
to all appearance the most trivial of busi¬ 
nesses. I play the spiteful boy — she is an 
obstinate peevish girl. There are other girls 
too — one an insinuating tiny minx, who 
would wheedle a backward glance out of 
Simon Stylites as he remounted his pillar — 
and, by the sun in heaven, will get little 
more from this child of Mother Earth! 
There’s another, I hear — Irish! — And 
[ 91 ] 


Helena s Path 

Irish is near my heart. But behind her — set 
in the uncertain radiance of my imagination 
— lies her Excellency. Heaven knows why! 
Save that it is gloriously paradoxical to meet 
a foreign Excellency in this spot, and to get 
to most justifiable, most delightful, logger- 
heads with her immediately. I have con¬ 
ceived Machiavellian devices. I will lure 
away her friends. I will isolate her, humiliate 
her, beat her in the fight. There may be 
some black eyes — some bruised hearts — 
but I shall do it. Why ? I have always been 
gentle before. But so I feel toward her. 
And therefore I am afraid. This is the 
foeman for my steel, I think — I have 
my doubts but that she’ll beat me in the 
end. 

“ When I talk like this, Cromlech chuckles, 
loves me as a show, despises me as a mind. 
Roger — young Roger Fitz-Archdeacon — 
[ 92 ] 




Exercise Before Breakfast 
is all an incredulous amazement. I don’t 
wonder. There is nothing so small and 
nothing so great — nothing so primitive 
and not a thing so complex — nothing so un¬ 
important and so engrossing as this ‘duel 
of the sexes.’ A. proves it a trifle, and is held 
great. B reckons it all-supreme, and becomes 
popular. C (a woman) describes the Hunter 
Man. D (a^man) descants of the Pursuit by 
Woman. The oldest thing is the most can¬ 
vassed and the least comprehended. But 
there’s a reputation — and I suppose money 

— in it for anybody who can string phrases. 
There’s blood-red excitement for every¬ 
body who can feel. Yet I’ve played my part 
in other affairs — not so much in dull old 
England, where you work five years to be¬ 
come a Member of Parliament, and five 
years more in order to get kicked out jagain 

— but in places where in a night you rise or 

[ 93 ] 


Helena’s Path 

fall — in five minutes order the shooting- 
squad or face it — boil the cook or are stuffed 
into the pot yourself. (Cromlech, this is not 
exact scientific statement!) Yet always — 
everywhere — the woman! And why ? On 
my honor, I don’t know. What in the end 
is she ? 

“ I adjourn the question — and put a 
broader one. What am I ? The human being 
as such ? If I’m a vegetable, am I not a mis¬ 
take ? If I’m an animal, am I not a cruelty F 
If I’m a soul, am I not misplaced ? I’d say 
‘Yes’ to all this, save that I enjoy myself so 
much. Because I have forty thousand a 
year F Hardly. I’ve had nothing, and been as 
completely out of reach of getting anything 
as the veriest pauper that ever existed — 
and yet I’ve had the deuce of a fine existence 
the while. I think there’s only one solid 
blunder been made about man — he 
[ 94 ] 


Exercise Before Breakfast 
oughtn’t to have been able to think. It wastes 
time. It makes many people unhappy. That’s 
not my case. I like it. It just wastes time. 

“That insinuating minx, possessed of a 
convenient dog and an ingratiating manner, 
insinuated to-day that I was handsome. 
Well, she’s pretty, and I suppose we’re both 
better off for it. It is an introduction. But 
to myself I don’t seem very handsome. I 
have my pride — I look a gentleman. But 
I look a queer foreign fish. I found myself 
envying the British robustness of that fine 
young chap who is so misguided as to be a 
lawyer. 

“Ah, why do I object to lawyers.? Tol¬ 
stoi!— I used to say — or, at the risk of 
advanced intellects not recognizing one’s 
allusions, one could go further back. But 
that is, in the end, all gammon. Every real 
conviction springs from personal experience. 
[ 95 ] 


Helena's Path 

I hate the law because it interfered with me. 
I'm not aware of any better reason. So I’m 
going on without it — unless somebody tries 
to steal my forty thousand, of course Am¬ 
brose, thou art a humbug — or, more pre¬ 
cisely, thou canst not avoid being a human 
individual!” 

Lord Lynborough completed the entry 
in his diary — he was tolerably well aware 
that he might just as well not have written 
it — and cast his eyes toward the window 
of the library. The stars were bright; a 
crescent moon decorated, without illuminat¬ 
ing, the sky. The regular recurrent beat of 
the sea on the shore, traversing the interval 
in night’s silence, struck on his ear. “If 
God knew Time, that might be His clock,” 
said he. “ Listen to its inexorable, peaceable, 
gentle, formidable stroke!” 

His sleep that night was short and broken. 

[ 96 ] 


Exercise Before Breakfast 
A fitful excitement was on his spirit: the 
glory of the summer morning wooed his 
restlessness. He would take his swim alone, 
and early. At six o’clock he slipped out of 
the house and made for Beach Path. The 
fortified gate was too strong for his unaided 
efforts. Roger Wilbraham had told him 
that, if the way were impeded, he had a 
right to “deviate.” He deviated now, lightly 
vaulting over the four-foot-high stone wall. 
None was there to hinder him, and, with 
emotions appropriate to the occasion, he 
passed Nab Grange and gained the beach. 
When once he was in the water, the emotions 
went away. 

They were to return — or, at any rate, to 
be succeeded by their brethren. After he had 
dressed, he sat down and smoked a cigarette 
as he regarded the smiling sea. This situa¬ 
tion was so agreeable that he prolonged it for 
[ 97 ] 


Helena s Path 

full half-an-hour; then a sudden longing for 
Coltson’s coffee came over him. He jumped 
up briskly and made for the Grange gate. 

He had left it open — it was shut now. 
None had been nigh when he passed through. 
Now a young woman in a white frock leant 
her elbows comfortably on its top rail and 
rested her pretty chin upon her hands. 
Lady Norah’s blue eyes looked at him 
serenely from beneath black lashes of 
noticeable length — at any rate Lynborough 
noticed their length. 

Lynborough walked up to the gate. With 
one hand he removed his hat, with the other 
he laid a tentative hand on the latch. Norah 
did not move or even smile. 

“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Lyn¬ 
borough, “ but if it does not incommode you, 
would you have the great kindness to per¬ 
mit me to open the gate 
[ 98 ] 


Exercise Before Breakfast 

“Oh, I’m sorry; but this is a private path 
leading to Nab Grange. I suppose you’re a 
stranger in these parts 

“ My name is Lynborough. I live at Scars- 
moor there.” 

“Are you Lord Lynborough.^” Nor ah 
sounded exceedingly interested. “ The Lord 
Lynborough ?” 

“There’s only one, so far as I’m aware,” 
the owner of the title answered. 

“ I mean the one who has done all those — 
those — well, those funny things 

“ I rejoice if the recital of them has caused 
you any amusement. And now, if you will 
permit me-” 

“Oh, but I can’t! Helena would never 
forgive me. I’m a friend of hers, you know 
— of the Marchesa di San Servolo. Really 
you can’t come through here.” 

“Do you think you can stop me V 
[ 99 ] 



Helena s Path 


“There isn’t room for you to get over as 
long as I stand here — and the wall’s too 
high to climb, isn’t it ?” 

Lynborough studied the wall; it was twice 
the height of the wall on the other side; it 
might be possible to scale, but difficult and 
laborious; nor would he look imposing while 
struggling at the feat. " 

“You’ll have to go round by the road,” 
remarked Norah, breaking into a smile. 

Lynborough was enjoying the conversa¬ 
tion just as much as she was — but he want¬ 
ed two things; one was victory, the other 
coffee. 

“ Can’t I persuade you to move he said 
imploringly. “ I really don’t want to have to 
resort to more startling measures.” 

“You surely wouldn’t use force against 
a girl. Lord Lynborough!” 

“ I said startling measures — not violent 
[ 100 ] 


Exercise Before Breakfast 
ones,” he reminded her. “Are your nerves 
good 

“Excellent, thank you.” 

“You mean to stand where you are?” 

“Yes — till you’ve gone away.” Now she 
laughed openly at him. Lynborough de¬ 
lighted in the merry sound and the flash of 
her white teeth. 

“It’s a splendid morning, isn’t it?” he 
asked. “ I should think you stand about five 
feet five, don’t you ? By the way, whom have 
I the pleasure of conversing with ?” 

“My name is Norah Mountliffey.” 

“Ah, I knew your father very well.” He 
drew back a few steps. “ So you must excuse 
an old family friend for telling you that you 
make a charming picture at that gate. If I 
had a camera — Just as you are, please!” 
He held up his hand, as though to pose her. 

“Am I quite right ?” she asked, humoring 

[ 101 ] 


Helena s Path 

the joke, with her merry mischievous eyes 
set on Lynborough’s face as she leaned over 
the top of the gate. 

“Quite right. Now, please! Don’t move!” 

“Oh, I’ve no intention of moving,” 
laughed Norah mockingly. 

She kept her word; perhaps she w^s too 
surprised to do anything else. For Lynbor- 
ough, clapping his hat on firmly, with a dart 
and a spring flew over her head. 

Then she wheeled round — to see him 
standing two yards from her, his hat in his 
hand again, bowing apologetically. 

“ Forgive me for getting between you and 
the sunshine for a moment,” he said. “But 
I thought I could still do five feet five; and 
you weren’t standing upright either. I’ve 
done within an inch of six feet, you know. 
And now I’m afraid I must reluctantly ask 
you to excuse me. I thank you for the plea- 
[ 102 ] 


Exercise Before Breakfast 
sure of this conversation.” He bowed, put on 
his hat, turned, and began to walk away 
along Beach Path. 

“You got the better of me that time, but 
you’ve not done with me yet,” she cried, 
starting after him. 

He turned and looked over his shoulder: 
save for his eyes his face was quite grave. 
He quickened his pace to a very rapid walk. 
Norah found that she must run, or fall 
behind. She began to run. Again that gravely 
derisory face turned upon her. She blushed, 
and fell suddenly to wondering whether in 
running she looked absurd. She fell to a 
walk. Lynborough seemed to know. Without 
looking round again, he abated his pace. 

“Oh, I can’t catch you if you won’t 
stop!” she cried. 

“ My friend and secretary, Roger Wilbra-" 
ham, tells me that I have no right to stop,” 
[ 103 ] 


Helena^s Path 

Lynborough explained, looking round again, 
but not standing still. “ I have only the right 
to pass and repass. I’m repassing now. He’s 
a barrister, and he says that’s the law. I 
daresay it is — but I regret tlrat it prevents 
me from obliging you. Lady Nor ah.” 

“Well, I’m not going to make a fool of 
myself by running after you,” said Norah 
crossly. 

Lynborough walked slowly on; Norah 
followed; they reached the turn of the path 
towards the Grange hall door. They reached 
it — and passed it — both of them. Lyn¬ 
borough turned once more — with a sur¬ 
prised lift of his brows. 

“At least I can see you safe off the pre¬ 
mises!” laughed Norah, and with a quick 
dart forward she reduced the distance be¬ 
tween them to half-a-yard. Lynborough 
seemed to have no objection; proximity 
[ 104 ] 


Exercise Before Breakfast 
made conversation easier; he moved slowly 
on. 

Norah seemed defeated — but suddenly 
she saw her chance, and hailed it with a cry. 
The Marchesa’s bailiff — John Goodenough 
— was approaching the path from the house 
situated at the southwest corner of the 
meadow. Her cry of his name caught his 
attention — as well as Lynborough’s. The 
latter walked a little quicker. John Good- 
enough hurried up. Lynborough walked 
steadily on. 

“Stop him, John!” cried Norah, her eyes 
sparkling with new excitement. “You know 
her Excellency’s orders ? This is Lord Lyn¬ 
borough!” 

“His lordship! Aye, it is. I beg your par¬ 
don, my lord, but — I’m very sorry to in¬ 
terfere with your lordship, but-” 

“You’re in my way, Goodenough.” For 
[ 105 ] 



Helena’s Path 

John had got across his path, and barred 
progress. “Of course I must stand still if 
you impede my steps, but I do it under 
protest. I only want to repass.” 

“You can’t come this way, my lord. I’m 
sorry, but it’s her Excellency’s strict orders. 
You must go back, my lord. ” 

“ I am going back — or I was till you 
stopped me.” 

“ Back to where you came from, my lord. ” 
“I came from Scarsmoor and I’m going 
back there, Goodenough. ” 

“Where you came from last, my lord.” 
“No, no, Goodenough. At all events, her 
Excellency has no right to drive me into the 
sea.” Lynborough’s tone was plaintively 
expostulatory. 

“Then if you won’t go back, my lord, 
here we stay!” said John, bewildered but 
faithfully obstinate. 

[ 106 ] 


Exercise Before Breakfast 
Just your tactics ! ” Lynborough observed 
to Norah, a keen spectator of the scene. “ But 
I’m not so patient of them from Goodenough. ” 
“ I don’t know that you were very patient 
with me.” 

“Goodenough, if you use sufficient force 
I shall, of course, be prevented from con¬ 
tinuing on my way. Nothing short of that, 
however, will stop me. And pray take care 
that the force is sufficient — neither more 
nor less than sufficient, Goodenough.” 

“I don’t want to use no violence to your 
lordship. Well now, if I lay my hand on 
your lordship’s shoulder, will that do to 
satisfy your lordship 

“I don’t know until you try it.” 

John’s face brightened. “I reckon that’s 
the way out. I reckon that’s law, my lord. 
I puts my hand on your lordship’s shoulder 
like that-” 


[ 107 ] 



Helena s Path 

He suited the action to the word. In an 
instant Lynborough’s long lithe arms were 
round him, Lynborough’s supple lean leg 
twisted about his. Gently, as though he had 
been a little baby, Lynborough laid the 
sturdy fellow on the grass. 

For all she could do, Norah Mountliffey 
cried “Bravo!” and clapped her hands. 
Goodenough sat up, scratched his head, and 
laughed feebly. 

“ Force not quite sufficient, Goodenough,” 
cried Lynborough gaily. “Now I repass!” 

He lifted his hat to Norah, then waved 
his hand. In her open impulsive way she 
kissed hers back to him as he turned away. 

By one of those accidents peculiar to 
tragedy, the Marchesa’s maid, performing 
her toilet at an upper window, saw this 
nefarious and traitorous deed! 

“ Swimming — jumping — wrestling! A 

[ 108 ] 


Exercise Before Breakfast 
good morning’s exercise! And all before 
those lazy chaps, Roger and Cromlech, are 
out of bed!” 

So saying. Lord Lynborough vaulted the 
wall again in high good humor. 


[ 109 ] 


Chapter Seven 


ANOTHER wedge! 

Deprived of their leader’s inspiration, the 
other two representatives of Scarsmoor did 
not brave the Passage Perilous to the sea 
that morning. Lynborough was well content 
to forego further aggression for the moment. 

His words declared his satisfaction- 

“ I have driven a wedge — another wedge 
— into the Marchesa’s phalanx. Yes, I 
think I may say a second wedge. Disaffection 
has made its entry into Nab Grange, Crom¬ 
lech. The process of isolation has begun. 
Perhaps after lunch we will resume opera¬ 
tions.” 

But fortune was to give him an opportun- 

[ 110 ] 




Another Wedge! 

ity even before lunch. It appeared that 
Stabb had sniffed out the existence of two 
old brasses in Fillby Church; he was de¬ 
termined to inspect them at the earliest pos¬ 
sible moment. Lynborough courteously of¬ 
fered to accompany him, and they set out 
together about eleven o’clock. 

No incident marked their way. Lyn¬ 
borough rang up the parish clerk at his 
house, presented Stabb to that important 
functionary, and bespoke for him every con¬ 
sideration. Then he leaned against the out¬ 
side of the churchyard wall, peacefully 
smoking a cigarette. 

On the opposite side of the village street 
stood the Lynborough Arms. The inn was 
kept by a very superior man, who had retired 
to this comparative leisure after some years 
of service as butler with Lynborough’s 
father. This excellent person, perceiving 
[ 111 ] 


Helena’s Path 

Lynborough, crossed the road and invited 
him to partake of a glass of ale in memory 
of old days. Readily acquiescing, Lynbor¬ 
ough crossed the road, sat down with the 
landlord on a bench by the porch, and began 
to discuss local affairs over the beer. 

“I suppose you haven’t kept up your 
cricket since you’ve been in foreign parts, 
my lord.^^” asked Dawson, the landlord, 
after some conversation which need not 
occupy this narrative. “We’re playing a 
team from Easthorpe to-morrow, and we’re 
very short.” 

“Haven’t played for nearly fifteen years, 
Dawson. But I tell you what — I daresay 
my friend Mr. Wilbraham will play. Mr. 
Stabb’s no use.” 

“Every one helps,” said Dawson. “We’ve 
got two of the gentlemen from the Grange 
— Mr. Stillford, a good bat, and Captain 
[ 112 ] 


Another Wedge! 

Irons, who can bowl a bit — or so John 
Goodenough tells me.” 

Lynborough’s eyes had grown alert. “ Well, 
I used to bowl a bit, too. If you’re really 
hard up for a man, Dawson — really at a 
loss, you know — I’ll play. It’ll be better 
than going into the field short, won’t it 

Dawson was profuse in his thanks. Lyn- 
borough listened patiently. 

“I tell you what I should like to do, 
Dawson,” he said. “I should like to stand 
the lunch.” 

It was the turn of Dawson’s eyes to grow 
alert. They did. Dawson supplied the lunch. 
The club’s finances were slender, and its 
ideas correspondingly modest. But if Lord 
Lynborough “stood” the lunch- ! 

“And to do it really well,” added that 
nobleman. “A sort of little feast to cele¬ 
brate my homecoming. The two teams — 
[ 113 ] 



Helena's Path 

and perhaps a dozen places for friends — 
ladies, the Vicar, and so on, eh, Dawson ? 
Do you see the idea?” 

Dawson saw the idea much more clearly 
than he saw most ideas. Almost corporeally 
he beheld the groaning board. 

“On such an occasion, Dawson, we 
shouldn’t quarrel about figures.” 

“Your lordship’s always most liberal,” 
Dawson acknowledged in tones which showed 
some trace of emotion. 

“Put the matter in hand at once. But 
look here, I don’t want it talked about. 
Just tell the secretary of the club — that’s 
enough. Keep the tent empty till the mo¬ 
ment comes. Then display your triumph! 
It’ll be a pleasant little surprise for every¬ 
body, won’t it ?” 

Dawson thought it would; at any rate 
it was one for him. 


[ 114 ] 


Another Wedge I 

At this instant an elderly lady of demure 
appearance was observed to walk up to the 
lych-gate and enter the churchyard. Lyn- 
borough inquired of his companion who 
she was. 

“ That’s Miss Gilletson from the Grange, 
my lord — the Marchesa’s companion.” 

“Is it.^” said Lynborough softly. “Oh, 
is it indeed ?” He rose from his seat. “ Good- 
by, Dawson. Mind — a dead secret, and 
a rattling good lunch!” 

“I’ll attend to it, my lord,” Dawson as¬ 
sured him with the utmost cheerfulness. 
Never had Dawson invested a glass of beer 
to better profit! 

Lynborough threw away his cigar and 
entered the sacred precincts. His brain 
was very busy. “Another wedge!” he was 
saying to himself. “Another wedge!” 

The lady had gone into the church. 

[ 115 ] 


Helena s Path 

Lynborough went in too. He came first on 
Stabb — on his hands and knees, examining 
one of the old brasses and making copious 
notes in a pocket-book. 

“Have you seen a lady come in, Crom¬ 
lech asked Lord Lynborough. 

“No, I haven’t,” said Cromlech, now 
producing a yard measure and proceeding 
to ascertain the dimensions of the brass. 

“You wouldn’t, if it were Venus herself,” 
replied Lynborough pleasantly. “ Well, I 
must look for her on my own account.” 

He found her in the neighborhood of his 
family monuments which, with his family 
pew, crowded the little chancel of the church. 
She was not employed in devotions, but was 
arranging some flowers in a vase — doubt¬ 
less a pious offering. Somewhat at a loss 
how to open the conversation, Lynborough. 
dropped his hat — or rather gave it a dex- 
[ 116 ] 


Another Wedge! 

terous jerk, so that it fell at the lady’s feet. 
Miss Gilletson started violently, and Lord 
Lynborough humbly apologized. Thence 
he glided into conversation, first about the 
flowers, then about the tombs. On the latter 
subject he was exceedingly interesting and 
informing. 

“Dear, dear! Married the Duke of Dex- 
minster’s daughter, did he.^^” said Miss 
Gilletson, considerably thrilled. “She’s not 
buried here, is she .P” 

“No, she’s not,” said Lynborough, sup¬ 
pressing the fact that the lady had run away 
after six months of married life. “And my 
own father’s not buried here, either; he 
chose my mother’s family place in Devon¬ 
shire. I thought it rather a pity.” 

“Your own father.^” Miss Gilleston 
gasped. 

“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know me,” he 
[ 117 ] 


Helena s Path 

said, laughing. “ I’m Lord Lynborough, you 
know. That’s how I come to be so well up in 
all this. And I tell you what — I should like 
to show you some of our Scarsmoor roses 
on your way home.” 

“ Oh, but if you’re Lord Lynborough, I — 

I really couldn’t-” 

‘‘ Who’s to know anything about it, unless 
you choose. Miss Gilletson ?” he asked 
with his ingratiating smile and his merry 
twinkle. “There’s nothing so pleasant as a 
secret shared with a lady!” 

It was a long time since a handsome man 
had shared a secret with Miss Gilletson. 
Who knows, indeed, whether such a thing 
had ever happened ? Or whether Miss 
Gilletson had once just dreamed that some 
day it might — and had gone on dreaming 
for long, long days, till even the dream had 
slowly and sadly faded away ? For some- 
[ 118 ] 


Another Wedge! 

times it does happen like that. Lynborough 
meant nothing — but no possible effort 
(supposing he made it) could enable him to 
look as if he meant nothing. One thing at 
least he did mean — to make himself very 
pleasant to Miss Gilletson. 

Interested knave! It is impossible to avoid 
that reflection. Yet let ladies in their turn 
ask themselves if they are over-scrupulous 
in their treatment of one man when their 
affections are set upon another. 

He showed Miss Gilletson all the family 
tombs. He escorted her from the church. 
Under renewed vows of secrecy he induced 
her to enter Scarsmoor. Once in the gardens, 
the good lady was lost. They had no such 
roses at Nab Grange! Lynborough insisted 
on sending an enormous bouquet to the 
Vicar’s wife in Miss Gilletson’s name — 
and Miss Gilletson grew merry as she 
[ 119 ] 


Helena s Path 

pictured the mystification of the Vicar’s wife. 
For Miss Gilletson herself he superintended 
the selection of a nosegay of the choicest 
blooms; they laughed again together when 
she hid them in a large bag she carried — 
destined for the tea and tobacco which 
represented her little charities. Then — 
after pausing for one private word in his 
gardener’s ear, which caused a boy to be 
sent off post-haste to the stables — he led 
her to the road, and in vain implored her 
to honor his house by setting foot in it. 
There the fear of the Marchesa or (it is 
pleasanter to think) some revival of the 
sense of youth, bred by Lynborough’s de¬ 
ferential courtliness, prevailed. They came 
together through his lodge gates; and Miss 
Gilletson’s face suddenly fell. 

‘‘That wretched gate!” she cried. “It’s 
locked — and I haven’t got the key.” 

[ 120 ] 


Another Wedge! 

“No more have I, I’m sorry to say,” 
said Lynborough. He, on his part, had 
forgotten nothing. 

“It’s nearly two miles round by the road 
— and so hot and dusty! — Really Helena 
does cut off her nose to spite her face!” 
Though, in truth, it appeared rather to be 
Miss Gilletson’s nose the Marchesa had cut 
off. 

A commiserating gravity sat on Lord 
Lynborough’s attentive countenance. 

“If I were younger, I’d climb that wall,” 
declared Miss Gilletson. “ As it is — well, 
but for your lovely flowers, I’d better have 
gone the other way after all.” 

“I don’t want you to feel that,” said he, 
almost tenderly. 

“I must walk!” 

“Oh no, you needn’t,” said Lynborough. 

As he spoke, there issued from the gates 

[ 121 ] 


Helena's Path 

behind them a luxurious victoria, drawn by 
two admirable horses. It came to a stand by 
Lynborough, the coachman touching his 
hat, the footman leaping to the ground. 

“Just take Miss Gilletson to the Grange, 
Williams. Stop a little way short of the 
house. ^ She wants to walk through the 
garden.” 

“Very good, my lord.” 

“Put up the hood, Charles. The sun’s 
very hot for Miss Gilletson.” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“Nobody’ll see you if you get out a hun¬ 
dred yards from the door — and it’s really 
better than tramping the road on a day 
like this. Of course, if Beach Path were 
open—!” He shrugged his shoulders ever 
so slightly. 

Fear of the Marchesa struggled in Miss 
Gilletson’s heart with the horror of the hot 
[ 122 ] 


Another Wedge! 

and tiring walk — with the seduction of the 
shady, softly rolling, speedy carriage. 

“If I met Helena!” she whispered; and 
the whisper was an admission of reciprocal 
confidence. 

“It’s the chance of that against the cer¬ 
tainty of the tramp!” 

“She didn’t come down to breakfast this 
morning-” 

“Ah, didn’t she.^” Lynborough made a 
note for his Intelligence Department. 

“ Perhaps she isn’t up yet! I — I think 
I’ll take the risk.” 

Lynborough assisted her into the car¬ 
riage. 

“I hope we shall meet again,” he said, 
with no small empressement. 

“ I’m afraid not, ” answered Miss Gilletson 
dolefully. “You see, Helena-” 

“Yes, yes; but ladies have their moods. 

[ 123 ] 



Helena s Path 

Anyhow you won’t think too hardly of me, 
will you ? I’m not altogether an ogre.” 

There was a pretty faint blush on Miss 
Gilletson’s cheek as she gave him her hand. 
“An ogre! No, dear Lord Lynborough,” 
she murmured. 

“A wedge!” said Lynborough, as he 
watched her drive away. 

He was triumphant with what he had 
achieved — he was full of hope for what 
he had planned. If he reckoned right, the 
loyalty of the ladies at Nab Grange to the 
mistress thereof was tottering, if it had not 
fallen. His relations with the men awaited 
the result of the cricket match. Yet neither 
his triumph nor his hope could in the nature 
of the case exist without an intermixture 
of remorse. He hurt — or tried to hurt — 
what he would please — and hoped to please. 
His mood was mixed, and his smile not al- 
[ 124 ] 


Another Wedge! 

together mirthful as he stood looking at the 
fast-receding carriage. 

Then suddenly, for the first time, he saw 
his enemy. Distantly — afar off! Yet with¬ 
out a doubt it was she. As he turned and cast 
his eyes over the forbidden path — the path 
whose seclusion he had violated, bold in his 
right — a white figure came to the sunk 
fence and stood there, looking not toward 
where he stood, but up to his castle on the 
hill. Lynborough edged near to the barri¬ 
caded gate — a new padlock and new 
chevaux-de-frise of prickly branches guarded 
it. The latter, high as his head, screened him 
completely; he peered through the inter¬ 
stices in absolute security. 

The white figure stood on the little bridge 
which led over the sunk fence into the mea¬ 
dow. He could see neither feature nor color; 
only the slender shape caught and chained 
[ 125 ] 


Helena’s Path 

his eye. Tall she was, and slender, as his 
mocking forecast had prophesied. More than 
that he could not see. 

Well, he did see one more thing. This 
beautiful shape, after a few minutes of what 
must be presumed to be meditation, raised 
its arm and shook its fist with decision at 
Scarsmoor Castle; then it turned and walk¬ 
ed straight back to the Grange. 

There was no sort of possibility of mis¬ 
taking the nature or the meaning of the ges¬ 
ture. 

It had the result of stifling Lynborough’s 
softer mood, of reviving his pugnacity. 
“She must do more than that, if she’s to 
win!” said he. 


[ 126 ] 


Chapter Eight 


THE MARCHESA MOVES 

After her demonstration against Scarsmoor 
Castle, the Marchesa went in to lunch. But 
there were objects of her wrath nearer home 
also. She received Norah’s salute — they 
had not met before, that morning — with 
icy coldness. 

“I’m better, thank you,” she said, “but 
you must be feeling tired — having been up so 
very early in the morning! And you — Violet 
— have you been over to Scarsmoor again ?” 

Violet had heard from Norah all about the 
latter’s morning adventure. They exchanged 
uneasy glances. Yet they were prepared to 
back one another up. The men looked more 
[ 127 ] 


Helena s Path 

frightened; men are frightened when women 
quarrel. 

“One of you,” continued the Marchesa 
accusingly, “pursues Lord Lynborough to 
his own threshold — the other flirts with 
him in my own meadow! Rather peculiar 
signs of friendship for me under the present 
circumstances — don’t you think so. Colonel 
Wenman 

The Colonel thought so — though he 
would have greatly preferred to be at liberty 
to entertain — or at least to express — no 
opinion on so thorny a point. 

“Flirt with him.? What do you mean.?” 
But Norah’s protest lacked the ring of honest 
indignation. 

“Kissing one’s hand to a mere stranger 

“ How do you know that ? You were in 
bed.” 



The Marchesa Moves 

“ Carlotta saw you from her window. 
You don’t deny 

“No, I don’t,” said Norah, perceiving 
the uselessness of such a course. “In fact, I 
glory in it. I had a splendid time with Lord 
Lynborough. Oh, I did try to keep him out 
for you — but he jumped over my head.” 

Sensation among the gentlemen! Increased 
scorn on the Marchesa’s face! 

“And when I got John Goodenough to 
help me, he just laid John down on the grass 
as — as I lay that spoon on the table! He’s 
splendid, Helena!” 

“He seems a good sort of chap,” said 
Irons thoughtfully. 

The Marchesa looked at Wenman. 

“ Nothing to be said for the fellow, nothing 
at all,” declared the Colonel hastily. 

“ Thank you. Colonel Wenman. I’m glad 
I have one friend left anyhow. Oh, besides 

[ 129 ] 


Helena's Path 

you, Mr. Stillford, of course. Oh, and you, 
dear old Jennie, of course. You wouldn’t 
forsake me, would you 

The tone of affection was calculated to 
gratify Miss Gilletson. But against it had 
to be set the curious and amused gaze of 
Norah and Violet. Seen by these two ladies 
in the act of descending from a stylish (and 
coroneted) victoria in the drive of Nab 
Grange, Miss Gilletson had, pardonably 
perhaps, broken down rather severely in 
cross-examination. She had been so very 
proud of the roses — so very full of Lord 
Lynborough’s graces! She was conscious 
now that the pair held her in their hands 
and were demanding courage from her. 

“Forsake you, dearest Helena ? Of course 
not! There’s no question of that with any 
of us.” 

“Yes — there is — with those of you who 
[ 130 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 

make friends with that wretch at Scars- 
moor!” 

“ Really, Helena, you shouldn’t be so — 
so vehement. I’m not sure it’s ladylike. It’s 
absurd to call Lord Lynborough a wretch.” 
The pale faint flush again adorned her fad¬ 
ing cheeks. “ I never met a man more thor¬ 
oughly a gentleman.” 

“You never met—” began the Marchesa 
in petrified tones. “ Then you have met — 
Again her words died away. 

Miss Gilletson took her courage in both 
hands. 

“ Circumstances threw us together. I 
behaved as a lady does under such circum¬ 
stances, Helena. And Lord Lynborough was, 
under the circumstances, most charming, 
courteous, and considerate.” She gathered 
more courage as she proceeded. “And really 
it’s highly inconvenient having that gate 

[ 131 ] 


Helena s Path 

locked, Helena. I had to come all the way 
round by the road.” 

“I’m sorry if you find yourself fatigued,” 
said the Marchesa with formal civility. 

“I’m not fatigued, thank you, Helena. I 
should have been terribly — but for Lord 
Lynborough’s kindness in sending me home 
in his carriage.” 

A pause followed. Then Norah and Violet 
began to giggle. 

“It was so funny this morning!” said 
Norah — and boldly launched on a full 
story of her adventure. She held the atten¬ 
tion of the table. The Marchesa sat in 
gloomy silence. Violet chimed in with more 
reminiscences of her visit to Scarsmoor; 
Miss Gilletson contributed new items, in¬ 
cluding that matter of the roses. Norah 
ended triumphantly with a eulogy on Lyn¬ 
borough’s extraordinary physical powers. 

[ 132 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 

Captain Irons listened with concealed in¬ 
terest. Even Colonel Wenman ventured to 
opine that the enemy was worth fighting. 
Stillford imitated his hostess’s silence, but 
he was watching her closely. Would her 
courage — or her obstinacy — break down 
under these assaults, this lukewarmness, 
these desertions ? In his heart, fearful of 
that lawsuit, he hoped so. 

“I shall prosecute him for assaulting 
Goodenough,” the Marchesa announced. 

“Goodenough touched him first!” cried 
Norah. 

“That doesn’t matter, since I’m in the 
right. He had no business to be there. That’s 
the law, isn’t it, Mr. Stillford ? Will he be 
sent to prison or only heavily fined 

“ Well — er — I’m rather afraid — nei¬ 
ther, Marchesa. You see, he’ll plead his 
right, and the Bench would refer us to our 
[ 133 ] 


Ilelena^s Path 

civil remedy and dismiss the summons. At 
least that’s my opinion.” 

“Of course that’s right,” pronounced 
Norah in an authoritative tone. 

“If that’s the English law,” observed 
the Marchesa, rising from the table, “I 
greatly regret that I ever settled in England. ” 

“ What are you going to do this afternoon, 
Helena ? Going to play tennis — or cro¬ 
quet 

“ I’m going for a walk, thank you, Violet. ” 
She paused for a moment and then added, 
“By myself.” 

“Oh, mayn’t I have the privilege — ?” 
began the Colonel. 

“ Not to-day, thank you. Colonel Wenman. 
I — I have a great deal to think about. We 
shall meet again at tea — unless you’re 
all going to tea at Scarsmoor Castle!” With 
this Parthian shot she left them. 

[ 134 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 
She had indeed much to think of — and 
her reflections were not cast in a cheerful 
mold. She had underrated her enemy. It 
had seemed suflBcient to lock the gate and 
to forbid Lynborough’s entry. These easy 
measures had appeared to leave him no 
resource save blank violence: in that con¬ 
fidence she had sat still and done nothing. 
He had been at work — not by blank vio¬ 
lence, but by cunning devices and subtle 
machinations. He had made a base use of 
his personal fascinations, of his athletic 
gifts, even of his lordly domain, his garden 
of roses, and his carriage. She perceived his 
strategy; she saw now how he had driven 
in his wedges. Her ladies had already gone 
over to his side; even her men were shaken. 
Stillford had always been lukewarm; Irons 
was fluttering round Lynborough’s flame; 
Wenman might still be hers — but an 
[ 135 ] 


Ilelena^s Path 

isolation mitigated only by Colonel Wenman 
seemed an isolation not mitigated in the 
least. When she had looked forward to a 
fight, it had not been to such a fight as this. 
An enthusiastic, hilarious, united Nab 
Grange was to have hurled laughing de¬ 
fiance at Scarsmoor Castle. Now more than 
half Nab Grange laughed — but its laughter 
was not at the Castle; its laughter, its pitying 
amusement, was directed at her; Lynbor- 
ough’s triumphant campaign drew all ad¬ 
miration. He had told Stillford that he would 
harry her; he was harrying her to his heart’s 
content — and to a very soreness in hers. 

For the path — hateful Beach Path which 
her feet at this moment trod — became now 
no more than an occasion for battle, a sym¬ 
bol of strife. The greater issue stood out. It 
was that this man had peremptorily chal¬ 
lenged her to a fight — and was beating her! 

[ 136 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 

And he won his victory, not by male violence 
in spite of male stupidity, but by just the 
arts and the cunning which should have 
been her own weapons. To her he left the 
blunt, the inept, the stupid and violent 
methods. He chose the more refined, and 
wielded them like a master. It was a position 
to which the Marchesa’s experience had not 
accustomed her — one to which her spirit 
was by no means attuned. 

What was his end — that end whose ap¬ 
proach seemed even now clearly indicated ? 
It was to convict her at once of cowardice 
and of pig-headedness, to exhibit her as 
afraid to bring him to book by law, and yet 
too churlish to cede him his rights. He would 
get all her friends to think that about her. 
Then she would be left alone — to fight a 
lost battle all alone. 

Was he right in his charge ? Did it truly 
[ 137 ] 


Helena^s Path 

describe her conduct ? For any truth there 
might be in it, she declared that he was 
himself to blame. He had forced the fight on 
her by his audacious demand for instant 
surrender; he had given her no fair time 
for consideration, no opportunity for a dig¬ 
nified retreat. He had offered her no choice 
save between ignominy and defiance. If she 
chose defiance, his rather than hers was the 
blame. 

Suddenly — across these dismal breed¬ 
ings — there shot a new idea. Fas est et 
ah hoste doceri; she did not put it in Latin, 
but it came to the same thing — Couldn’t 
she pay Lynborough back in his own coin ? 
She had her resources — perhaps she had 
been letting them lie idle! Lord Lynborough 
did not live alone at Scarsmoor. If there were 
women open to his wiles at the Grange, 
were there no men open to hers at Scars- 
[ 138 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 

moor ? The idea was illuminating; she ac¬ 
corded it place in her thoughts. 

She was just by the gate. She took our her 
key, opened the padlock, closed the gate 
behind her, but did not lock it, walked on 
to the road, and surveyed the territory of 
Scarsmoor. 

Fate helps those who help themselves: 
her new courage of brain and heart had its 
reward. She had not been there above a 
minute when Roger Wilbraham came out 
from the Scarsmoor gates. 

Lynborough had, he considered, done 
enough for one day. He was awaiting the 
results of to-morrow’s manoeuvers anent 
the cricket match. But he amused himself 
after lunch by proffering to Roger a wager 
that he would not succeed in traversing 
Beach Path from end to end, and back again, 
alone, by his own unassisted efforts, and 
[ 139 ] 


Helena's Path 

without being driven to ignominious flight. 
Without a moment’s hesitation Roger ac¬ 
cepted. “I shall just wait till the coast’s 
clear,” he said. 

“Ah, but they’ll see you from the win¬ 
dows! They will be on the lookout,” Lyn- 
borough retorted. 

The Marchesa had strolled a little way 
down the road. She was walking back to¬ 
ward the gate when Roger first came in 
sight. He did not see her until after he had 
reached the gate. There he stood a moment, 
considering at what point to attack it — for 
the barricade was formidable. He came to the 
same conclusion as Lynborough had reached 
earlier in the day. “Oh, I’ll jump the wall,” 
he said. 

“The gate isn’t locked,” remarked a 
charming voice just behind him. 

He turned round with a start and saw — 
[ 140 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 

he had no doubt whom she was. The Mar- 
chesa’s tall slender figure stood before him — 
all in white, crowned by a large, yet simple, 
white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tinged 
with underlying red (the flush of which 
Lynborough had dreamed!); her dark eyes 
rested on the young man with a kindly 
languid interest; her very red lips showed 
no smile, yet seemed to have one in ready 
ambush. Roger was overcome; he blushed 
and stood silent before the vision. 

“ I expect you’re going to bathe ? Of course 
this is the shortest way, and I shall be so 
glad if you’ll use it. I’m going to the Grange 
myself, so I can put you on your way.” 

Roger was honest. “I — I’m staying at 
the Castle.” 

‘‘ I’ll tell' somebody to be on the lookout 
and open the gate for you when you come 
back,” said she. 


[ 141 ] 


Helena s Path 

If Norah was no match for Lynborough, 
Roger was none for the Marchesa’s prac¬ 
tised art. 

“You’re — you’re awfully kind. I — I 
shall be delighted, of course.” 

The Marchesa passed through the gate. 
Roger followed. She handed him the key. 

“ Will you please lock the padlock ? It’s 
not — safe — to leave the gate open. ” 

Her smile had come into the open — it 
was on the red lips now! For all his agita¬ 
tion Roger was not blind to its meaning. 
His hand was to lock the gate against his 
friend and chief! But the smile and the eyes 
commanded. He obeyed. 

It was the first really satisfactory moment 
which the contest had brought to the Mar¬ 
chesa — some small instalment of consola¬ 
tion for the treason of her friends. 

Roger had been honestly in love once with 
[ 142 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 

a guileless maiden — who had promptly 
and quite unguilefully refused him; his ex¬ 
perience did not at all fit him to cope with 
the Marchesa. She, of course, was merciless: 
was he not of the hated house ? As an in¬ 
dividual, however, he appeared to be comely 
and agreeable. 

They walked on side by side — not very 
quickly. The Marchesa’s eyes were now 
downcast. Roger was able to steal a glance 
at her profile; he could compare it to nothing 
less than a Roman Empress on an ancient 
silver coin. 

‘T suppose you’ve been taught to think 
me a very rude and unneighborly person, 
haven’t you, Mr. Wilbraham ? At least I 
suppose you’re Mr. Wilbraham ? You don’t 
look old enough to be that learned Mr. 
Stabb the Vicar told me about. Though he 
said Mr. Stabb was absolutely delightful — 
[ 143 ] 


Helena's Path 

how I should love to know him, if only — 
She broke off, sighing deeply. 

“Yes, my name’s Wilbraham. I’m Lyn- 
borough’s secretary. But — er — I don’t 
think anything of that sort about you. 
And — and I’ve never heard Lynborough 
say anything — er — unkind. ” 

“Oh, Lord Lynborough!” She gave a 
charming little shrug, accompanied with 
what Roger, from his novel-reading, con¬ 
ceived to be a moue, 

“ Of course I — I know that you — you 
think you’re right,” he stammered. 

She stopped on the path. “Yes, I do 
think I’m right, Mr. Wilbraham. But that’s 
not it. If it were merely a question of right, 
it would be unneighborly to insist. I’m not 
hurt by Lord Lynborough’s using this path. 
But I’m hurt by Lord Lynborough’s dis¬ 
courtesy. In my country women are treated 
[ 144 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 

with respect — even sometimes (she gave a 
bitter little laugh) with deference. That 
doesn’t seem to occur to Lord Lynborough. ” 

“Well, you know-” 

“Oh, I can’t let you say a word against 
him, whatever you may be obliged to think. 
In your position — as his friend — that 
would be disloyal; and the one thing I dis¬ 
like is disloyalty. Only I was anxious ’ ’— she 
turned and faced him — “ that you should un¬ 
derstand my position — and that Mr. Stabb 
should too. I shall be very glad if you and Mr. 
Stabb will use the path whenever you like. If 
the gate’s locked you can manage the wall!” 
“ I’m — I’m most awfully obliged to you 

— er — Marchesa — but you see-” 

“No more need be said about that, Mr. 
Wilbraham. You’re heartily welcome. Lord 
Lynborough would have been heartily wel¬ 
come too, if he would have approached me 
[ 145 ] 



Helena s Path 

properly. I was open to discussion. I re¬ 
ceived orders. I don’t take orders — not 
even from Lord Lynborough. ” 

She looked splendid — so Roger thought. 
The underlying red dyed the olive to a 
brighter hue; her eyes were very proud; the 
red lips shut decisively. Just like a Roman 
Empress! Then her face underwent a 
rapid transformation; the lips parted, the 
eyes laughed, the cheeks faded to hues less 
stormy, yet not less beautiful. (These are 
recorded as Mr. Wilbraham’s impressions.) 
Lightly she laid the tips of her fingers on his 
arm for just a moment. 

“There — don’t let’s talk any more about 
disagreeable things,” she said. “It’s too 
beautiful an afternoon. Can you spare just 
five minutes ? The strawberries are splendid! 
I want some — and it’s so hot to pick them 
for one’s self!” 


[ 146 ] 


The Marchesa Moves 

Roger paused, twisting the towel round 
his neck. 

“Only five minutes!” pleaded — yes, 
pleaded — the beautiful Marchesa. “ Then 
you can go and have your swim in peace.” 

It was a question whether poor Roger was 
to do anything more in peace that day — 
but he went and picked the strawberries. 


[ 147 ] 


Chapter N'kie 


LYNBOROUGH DROPS A CATCH 

“Something has happened!” (So Lyn- 
borough records the same evening.) “I 
don’t know precisely what — but I think 
that the enemy is at last in motion. I’m glad. 
I was being too successful. I had begun to 
laugh at her — and that only. I prefer the 
admixture of another element of emotion. 
All that ostensibly appears is that I have 
lost five shillings to Roger. ‘You did it.^’ I 
asked. ‘Certainly,’ said Roger. ‘I went at 
my ease and came back at my ease, and —’ 
I interrupted, ‘Nobody stopped you.^^’ 
‘Nobody made any objection,’ said Roger. 
‘You took your time,’ says I. ‘You were 
[ 148 ] 


Lynborough Drops a Catch 
away three hours! ’ ‘ The water was very 
pleasant this afternoon/ says Roger. Hum! 
I hand over my two half-crowns, which 
Roger pockets with a most peculiar sort 
of smile. There that incident appears to 
end — with a comment from me that the 
Marchesa’s garrison is not very alert. An¬ 
other smile — not less peculiar — from 
Roger! Hum! 

“Then Cromlech! I trust Cromlech as 
myself — that is, as far as I can see him. 
He has no secrets from me — that I know of; 
I have none from him — which would be 
at all likely to interest him. Yet, soon after 
Roger’s return. Cromlech goes out! And 
they had been alone together for some min¬ 
utes, as I happen to have observed. Cromlech 
is away an hour and a half! If I were not 
a man of honor, I would have trained the 
telescope on to him. I refrained. Where was 
[ 149 ] 


Helena's Path 

Cromlech ? At the church, he told me. I 
accept his word — but the church has had a 
curious effect upon him. Sometimes he is silent, 
sulky, reflective, embarrassed — constantly 
rubbing the place where his hair ought to be 
— not altogether too civil to me either. 
Anon, sits with a fat happy smile on his face! 
Has he found a new tomb? No; he’d tell 
me about a new tomb. What has happened 
to Cromlech ? 

“ At first sight Violet — the insinuating 
one — would account for the phenomena. 
Or Norah’s eyes and lashes ? Yet I hesitate. 
Woman, of course, it is, with both of them. 
Violet might make men pleased with them¬ 
selves; Norah could make them merry and 
happy. Yet these two are not so much pleased 
with themselves — rather they are pleased 
with events; they are not merry — they are 
thoughtful. And I think they are resentful. I 
[ 150 ] 


Lynborough Drops a Catch 
believe the hostile squadron has weighed an¬ 
chor. In these great results, achieved so 
quickly, demanding on my part such an 
effort in reply, I see the Marchesa’s touch! 
I have my own opinion as to what has 
happened to Roger and to Cromlech. Well, 
we shall see — to-morrow is the cricket 
match!” 

Later. I had closed this record; I was 
preparing to go to bed (wishing to bathe 
early to-morrow) when I found that I had 
forgotten to bring up my book. Coltson 
had gone to bed — or out — anyhow, away. 
I went down myself. The library door stood 
ajar; I had on my slippers; a light burned 
still; Cromlech and Roger were up. As I 
approached — with an involuntary noise¬ 
lessness (I really couldn’t be expected to 
think of coughing, in my own house and 
with no ladies about) — I overheard this 

[ 151 ] 


Helena s Path 

remarkable, most significant, most important 
conversation: 

‘‘ Cromlech: ‘On my soul, there were tears 
in her eyes!’ 

"'Roger: ‘Stabb, can we as gentlemen — ?’ 

“Then, as I presume, the shuffle of my 
slippers became audible. I went in; both 
drank whisky-and-soda in a hurried fashion. 
I took my book from the table. Naught said 
I. Their confusion was obvious. I cast on 
them one of my looks; Roger blushed, Stabb 
shuffled his feet. I left them. 

“ ‘Tears in her eyes!’ ‘Can we as gentle¬ 
men 

“The Marchesa moves slowly, but she 
moves in force!” 

It is unnecessary to pursue the diary 
further; for his lordship — forgetful appar¬ 
ently of the borne of bed, to which he had 
originally destined himself — launches into 
[ 152 ] 


Lynborough Drops a Cate 
a variety of speculations as to the Nature of 
Love. Among other questions, he puts to 
himself the following concerning Love: 

(I) Is it Inevitable ? (2) Is it Agreeable ? 
(3) Is it Universal ? (4) Is it Wise ? (5) Is it 
Remunerative ? (6) Is it Momentary ? ( 7 ) 
Is it Sempiternal ? (8) Is it Voluntary ? (9) 
Is it Conditioned ? (10) Is it Remediable ? 

(II) Is it Religious } (There’s a note here — 
‘‘Consult Cromlech”) — (12) May it be 
expected to survive the Advance of Civiliza¬ 
tion ? (13) Why does it exist at all ? (14) Is 
it Ridiculous ? 

It is not to be inferred that Lord Lyn¬ 
borough answers these questions. He is, 
like a wise man, content to propound them. 
If, however, he had answered them, it might 
have been worth while to transcribe the diary. 

“Can we as gentlemen— ?” —Roger 
had put the question. It waited unanswered 
[153] 


Helena s Path 

till Lynborough had taken his book and 
returned to record its utterance — together 
with the speculations to which that utterance 
gave rise. Stabb weighed it carefully, rubbing 
his bald head, according to the habit which 
his friend had animadverted upon. 

“If such a glorious creature — ” cried 
Roger. 

“If a thoroughly intelligent and most 
sympathetic woman —” said Stabb. 

“Thinks that she has a right, why, she 
probably has one!” 

“ At any rate her view is entitled to respect 
— to a courteous hearing.” 

“Lynborough does appear to have been 
a shade — er-” 

“Ambrose is a spoiled child, bless him! 
She took a wonderful interest in my brasses. 
I don’t know what brought her to the 
church.” 


[ 154 ] 



Lynhorough Drops a Catch 
^‘She waited herself to let me through 
that beastly gate again;!” 

“ She drove me round herself to our gates. 
Wouldn’t come through Scarsmoor!” 

They both sighed. They both thought 
of telling the other something — but on 
second thoughts refrained. 

“I suppose we’d better go to bed. Shall 
you bathe to-morrow morning 

“ With Ambrose ? No, I sha’n’t, Wil- 
braham.” 

“No more shall I. Good-night, Stabb. 
You’ll — think it over 

Stabb grunted inarticulately. Roger drew 
the blind aside for a moment, looked down 
on Nab Grange, saw a light in one window 
— and went to bed. The window was, in 
objective fact (if there be such a thing). 
Colonel Wenman’s. No matter. There noth¬ 
ing is but thinking makes it so. The Colonel 
[155] 


Helena^s Path 

was sitting up, writing a persuasive letter 
to his tailor. He served emotions that he did 
not feel; it is a not uncommon lot. 

Lynborough’s passing and repassing to 
and from his bathing were uninterrupted 
next morning. Nab Grange seemed wrapped 
in slumber; only Goodenough saw him, 
and Goodenough did not think it advisable 
to interrupt his ordinary avocations. But 
an air of constraint — even of mystery — 
marked both Stabb and Roger at breakfast. 
The cricket match was naturally the topic — 
though Stabb declared that he took little 
interest in it and should probably not be 
there. 

“There’ll be some lunch, I suppose,’’ 
said Lynborough carelessly. “You’d better 
have lunch there — it’d be dull for you all 
by yourself here. Cromlech.” 

After apparent consideration Stabb con- 
[156] 


Lynhorough Droops a Catch 
ceded that he might take luncheon on the 
cricket ground; Roger, as a member of the 
Fillby team, would, of course, do likewise. 

The game was played in a large field, 
pleasantly surrounded by a belt of trees, and 
lying behind the Lynborough Arms. Be¬ 
sides Roger and Lynborough, Stillford and 
Irons represented Fillby. Easthorpe Poly¬ 
technic came in full force, save for an um¬ 
pire. Colonel Wenman, who had walked 
up with his friends, was pressed into this 
honorable and responsible service, landlord 
Dawson officiating at the other end. Lyn- 
borough’s second gardener, a noted fast 
bowler, was Fillby’s captain; Easthorpe was 
under the command of a curate who had 
played several times for his University, 
although he had not actually achieved his 
“blue.” Easthorpe won the toss and took 
first innings. 


[ 157 ] 


Helena's Path 

The second gardener, aware of his em¬ 
ployer’s turn of speed, sent Lord Lynbor- 
ough to field “in the country.” That gentle¬ 
man was well content; few balls came his 
way and he was at leisure to contemplate 
the exterior of the luncheon tent — he had 
already inspected the interior thereof with 
sedulous care and high contentment — and 
to speculate on the probable happenings of 
the luncheon hour. So engrossed was he 
that only a rapturous cheer, which rang out 
from the field and the spectators, apprised 
him of the fact that the second gardener had 
yorked the redoubtable curate with the 
first ball of his second over! Young Wood- 
well came in; he was known as a mighty 
hitter; Lynborough was signaled to take his 
position yet deeper in the field. Young 
Wood well immediately got to business — 
but he kept the ball lov/. Lynborough had, 
[158] 


Lynborough Drops a Catch 
however, the satisfaction of saving several 
“boundaries.” Roger, keeping wicket, ob¬ 
served his chief’s exertions with some satis¬ 
faction. Other wickets fell rapidly — but 
young Wood well’s score rapidly mounted 
up. If he could stay in, they would make 
a hundred — and Fillby looked with just 
apprehension on a score like that. The 
second gardener, who had given himself a 
brief rest, took the ball again with an air 
of determination. 

“Peters doesn’t seem to remember that I 
also bowl,” reflected Lord Lynborough. 

The next moment he was glad of this 
omission. Young Woodwell was playing 
for safety now — his fifty loomed ahead! 
Lynborough had time for a glance round. 
He saw Stabb saunter on to the field; then — 
just behind where he stood when the second 
gardener was bowling from the Lynborough 
[159] 


Helena s Path 

Arms end of the field — a wagonette drove 
up. Four ladies descended. A bench was 
placed at their disposal, and the two men- 
servants at once began to make preparations 
for lunch, aided therein by the ostler from 
the Lynborough Arms, who rigged up a 
table on trestles under a spreading tree. 

Lord Lynborough’s reputation as a sports¬ 
man inevitably suffers from this portion of 
the narrative. Yet extenuating circumstances 
may fairly be pleaded. He was deeply in¬ 
terested in the four ladies who sat behind 
him on the bench; he was vitally concerned 
in the question of the lunch. As he walked 
back, between the overs, to his position, he 
could see that places were being set for some 
half-dozen people. Would there be half-a- 
dozen there ? As he stood, watching, or 
trying to watch, young Woodwell’s danger¬ 
ous bat, he overheard fragments of conver- 
[IGO] 


Lynborough Droops a Catch 
sation wafted from the bench. The ladies 
were too far from him to allow of their 
faces being clearly seen, but it was not hard 
to recognize their figures. 

The last man in had joined young Wood- 
well. That hero’s score was forty-eight, the 
total ninety-three. The second gardener was 
tempting the Easthorpe champion with an 
occasional slow ball; up to now young 
Woodwell had declined to hit at these de¬ 
ceivers. 

Suddenly Lynborough heard the ladies’ 
voices quite plainly. They — or some of them 
— had left the bench and come nearer to 
the boundary. Irresistibly drawn by curi¬ 
osity, for an instant he turned his head. At 
the same instant the second gardener de¬ 
livered a slow ball — a specious ball. This 
time young Woodwell fell into the snare. 
He jumped out and opened his shoulders to 
[ 161 ] 


Helena s Path 

it. He hit it — but he hit it into the air. It 
soared over the bowler’s head and came 
traveling through high heaven toward 
Lord Lynborough. 

“Look out!” cried the second gardener. 
Lynborough’s head spun round again — 
but his nerves were shaken. His eyes seemed 
rather in the back of his head, trying to see 
the Marchesa’s face, than fixed on the ball 
that was coming toward him. He was in no 
mood for bringing off a safe catch! 

Silence reigned, the ball began to drop. 
Lynborough had an instant to wait for it. 
He tried to think of the ball and the ball only. 

It fell — it fell into his hands; he caught it 
— fumbled it — caught it — fumbled it 
again — and at last dropped it on the grass I 
“Oh!” went in a long-drawn expostulation 
round the field; and Lynborough heard a 
voice say plainly: 


[ 162 ] 


Lynborough Droops a Catch 

“Who is that stupid clumsy man ?” The 
voice was the Marchesa’s. 

He wheeled round sharply — but her 
back was turned. He had not seen her face 
after all! 

“Over!” was called. Lynborough apolo¬ 
gized abjectly to the second gardener. 

“The sun was in my eyes, Peters, and 
dazzled me,” he pleaded. 

“ Looks to me as if the sun was shining the 
other way, my lord,” said Peters dryly. And 
so, in physical fact, it was. 

In Peters’ next over Lynborough atoned 
— for young Woodwell had got his fifty 
and grown reckless. A one-handed catch, 
wide on his left side, made the welkin ring 
with applause. The luncheon bell rang too — 
for the innings was finished. Score 101. 
Last man out 52. Jim (ofl5ce-boy at Poly¬ 
technic) not out 0. Young Woodwell received 
[163] 


Helena s Path 

a merited ovation — and Lord Lynborough 
hurried to the luncheon tent. The Mar- 
chesa, with an exceedingly dignified mien, 
repaired to her table under the spreading 
oak. 

Mr. Dawson had done himself more than 
justice; the repast was magnificent. When 
Stillford and Irons saw it, they became more 
sure than ever what their duty was, more 
convinced still that the Marchesa would 
understand. Colonel Wenman became less 
sure what his duty was — previously it had 
appeared to him that it was to lunch with 
the Marchesa. But the Marchesa had 
spoken of a few sandwiches and perhaps a 
bottle of claret. Stillford told him that, as 
umpire, he ought to lunch with the teams. 
Irons declared it would look “ deuced stand¬ 
offish” if he didn’t. Lynborough, who ap¬ 
peared to act as deputy-landlord to Mr. 

[ 164] 


Lynborough Drops a Catch 
Dawson, pressed him into a chair with a 
friendly hand. 

“Well, she’ll have the ladies with her, 
won’t she.^^” said the Colonel, his last 
scruple vanishing before a large jug of hock- 
cup, artfully iced. The Nab Grange con¬ 
tingent fell to. 

Just then — when they were irrevocably 
committed to this feast — the flap of the 
tent was drawn back, and Lady Norah’s 
face appeared. Behind her stood Violet and 
Miss Gilletson. Lynborough ran forward 
to meet them. 

“Here we are. Lord Lynborough,” said 
Norah. “The Marchesa was so kind, she 
told us to do just as we liked, and we thought 
it would be such fun to lunch with the 
cricketers. ” 

“The cricketers are immensely honored. 
Let me introduce you to our captain, Mr. 

[165] 


Helena s Path 

Peters. You must sit by him, you know. 
And, Miss Dufaure, will you sit by Mr. 
Jeffreys ? — he’s their captain — Miss Du¬ 
faure — Mr. Jeffreys. You, Miss Gilletson, 
must sit between Mr. Dawson and me. 
Now we’re right — What, Colonel Wen- 
man — What’s the matter 

Wenman had risen from his place. “The 
— the Marchesa!” he said. “We — we 
can’t leave her to lunch alone!” 

Lady Norah broke in again. “Oh, Helena 
expressly said that she didn’t expect the 
gentlemen. She knows what the custom is, 
you see.” 

The Marchesa had, no doubt, made all 
these speeches. It may, however, be doubted 
whether Norah reproduced exactly the man¬ 
ner, and the spirit, in which she made 
them. But the iced hock-cup settled the 
Colonel. With a relieved sigh he resumed 
[ 166 ] 


Lynborough Drops a Catch 
his place. The business of the moment went 
on briskly for a quarter of an hour. 

Mr. Dawson rose, glass in hand. “ Ladies 
and gentlemen,” said he, “I’m no hand at a 
speech, but I give you the health of our kind 
neighbor and good host to-day — Lord 
Lynborough. Here’s to his lordship!” 

“I — I didn’t know he was giving the 
lunch!” whispered Colonel Wenman. 

“Is it his lunch?” said Irons, nudging 
Stillford. 

Stillford laughed. “It looks like it. And 
we can hardly throw him over the hedge 
after this!” 

“Well, he seems to be a jolly good chap,” 
said Captain Irons. 

Lynborough bowed his acknowledgments, 
and flirted with Miss Gilletson; his face wore 
a contented smile. Here they all were — and 
the Marchesa lunched alone on the other 
[ 167 ] 


Helena^s Path 

side of the field! Here indeed was a new 
wedge! Here was the isolation at which his 
diabolical schemes had aimed. He had cap¬ 
tured Nab Grange! Bag and baggage they 
had come over — and left their chieftainess 
deserted. 

Then suddenly — in the midst of his 
triumph — in the midst too of a certain not 
ungenerous commiseration which he felt 
that he could extend to a defeated enemy 
and to beauty in distress — he became 
vaguely aware of a gap in his company. 
Stabb was not there! Yet Stabb had come 
upon the ground. He searched the company 
again. No, Stabb was not there. Moreover 
— a fact the second search revealed — 
Roger Wilbraham was not there. Roger 
was certainly not there; yet, whatever Stabb 
might do, Roger would never miss lunch! 

Lynborough’s eyes grew thoughtful; he 

[ 168 ] 


Lynhorough Droops a Catch 
pursed up his lips. Miss Gilletson noticed 
that he became silent. 

He could bear the suspense no longer. 
On a pretext of looking for more bottled 
beer, he rose and walked to the door of the 
tent. 

Under the spreading tree the Marchesa 
lunched — not in isolation, not in gloom. 
She had company — and, even as he ap¬ 
peared, a merry peal of laughter was wafted 
by a favoring breeze across the field of 
battle. Stabb’s ponderous figure, Roger 
Wilbraham’s highly recognizable “blazer,” 
told the truth plainly. 

Lord Lynborough was not the only expert 
in the art of driving wedges! 

“ Well played, Helena!” he said under his 
breath. 

The rest of the cricket match interested 
him very little. Successful beyond their 
[ 169 ] 


Helena^s Path 

expectations, Fillby won by five runs (Wil- 
braham not out thirty-seven) — but Lyn- 
borough’s score did not swell the victorious 
total. In Easthorpe’s second innings — 
which could not affect the result — Peters 
let him bowl, and he got young Woodwell’s 
wicket. That was a distinction; yet, looking 
at the day as a whole, he had scored less 
than he expected. 


[ 170 ] 


Chapter Ten 

IN THE LAST RESORT! 

It will have been perceived by now that Lord 
Lynborough delighted in a fight. He revelled 
in being opposed; the man who withstood 
him to the face gave him such pleasure as to 
beget in his mind certainly gratitude, per¬ 
haps affection, or at least a predisposition 
thereto. There was nothing he liked so much 
as an even battle — unless, by chance, it were 
the scales seeming to incline a little against 
him. Then his spirits rose highest, his courage 
was most buoyant, his kindliness most sunny. 

The benefit of this disposition accrued to 
the Marchesa; for by her sudden counter- 
attach she had at least redressed the balance 
[ 171 ] 


Helena^s Path 

of the campaign. He could not be sure that 
she had not done more. The ladies of her 
party were his — he reckoned confidently 
on that; but the men he could not count 
as more than neutral at the best; Wenman, 
anyhow, could easily be whistled back to the 
Marchesa’s heel. But in his own house, he 
admitted at once, she had secured for him 
open hostility, for herself the warmest of 
partisanship. The meaning of her lunch was 
too plain to doubt. No wonder her opposi¬ 
tion to her own deserters had been so faint; 
no wonder she had so readily, even if so 
scornfully, afforded them the pretext — the 
barren verbal permission — that they had 
required. She had not wanted them — no, 
not even the Colonel himself! She had 
wanted to be alone with Roger and with 
Stabb — and to complete the work of her 
blandishments on those guileless, tender- 
[ 172 ] 


In the Last Resort! 

hearted, and susceptible persons. Lyn- 
borougli admired, applauded, and promised 
himself considerable entertainment at din¬ 
ner. 

How was the Marchesa, in her turn, 
bearing her domestic isolation, the internal 
disaffection at Nab Grange ? He flattered 
himself that she would not be finding in it 
such pleasure as his whimsical temper 
reaped from the corresponding position of 
affairs at Scarsmoor. 

There he was right. At Nab Grange the 
atmosphere was not cheerful. Not to want a 
thing by no means implies an admission 
that you do not want it; that is elementary 
diplomacy. Rather do you insist that you 
want it very much; if you do not get it, 
there is a grievance — and a grievance is a 
mighty handy article of barter. The Mar¬ 
chesa knew all that. 

[ 173 ] 


Helena^ s Path 

The deserters were severely lashed. The 
Marchesa had said that she did not expect 
Colonel Wenman; ought she to have sent a 
message to say that she was pining for him — 
must that be wrung from her before he would 
condescend to come ? She had said that she 
knew the custom with regard to lunch at 
cricket matches; was that to say that she 
expected it to be observed to her manifest 
and public humiliation ? She had told Miss 
Gilletson and the girls to please themselves; 
of course she wished them to do that always. 
Yet it might be a wound to find that their 
pleasure lay in abandoning their friend 
and hostess, in consorting with her arch¬ 
enemy, and giving him a triumph. 

“ Well, what do you say about Wilbraham 
and Stabb.^^” cried the trampled Colonel. 

‘T say that they’re gentlemen,” retorted 
the Marchesa. “They saw the position I 
[ 174 ] 


In the Last Resort! 

was in — an ' they saved me from humil¬ 
iation.” 

That was enough for the men; men are, 
after all, poor fighters. It was not, however, 
enough for Lady Norah Mountliffey — a 
woman — and an Irishwoman to boot! 

“Are you really asking us to believe that 
you hadn’t arranged it with them before¬ 
hand ?” she inquired scornfully. 

“Oh, I don’t ask you to believe anything 
I say,” returned the Marchesa, dexterously 
avoiding saying anything on the point 
suggested. 

“The truth is, you’re being very absurd, 
Helena,” Norah pursued. “If you’ve got a 
right, go to law with Lord Lynborough and 
make him respect it. If you haven’t got a 
right, why go on making yourself ridiculous 
and all the rest of us very uncomfortable 

It was obvious that the Marchesa might 
[ 175 ] 


Helena s Path 

reply that any guest of hers who felt himself 
or herself uncomfortable at Nab Grange 
had, in his or her own hand, the easy remedy. 
She did not do that. She did a thing more 
disconcerting still. Though the mutton had 
only just been put on the table, she pushed 
back her chair, rose to her feet, and fled from 
the room very hastily. 

Miss Gilletson sprang up. But Noran was 
beforehand with her. 

‘‘No! I said it. I’m the one to go. Who 
could think she’d take it like that Norah’s 
own blue eyes were less bright than usual as 
she hurried after her wounded friend. The 
rest ate on in dreary conscience-stricken 
silence. At last Stillford spoke. 

“Don’t urge her to go to law,” he said. 
“I’m pretty sure she’d be beaten.” 

“ Then she ought to give in — and apol¬ 
ogize to Lord Lynborough,” said Miss 
[ 176 ] 


In the Last Resort! 

Gilletson decisively. “ That would be right — 
and, I will add, Christian.” 

“Humble Pie ain’t very good eating,” 
commented Captain Irons 

Neither the Marchesa nor Norah came 
back. The meal wended along its slow and 
melancholy course to a mirthless weary 
conclusion. Colonel Wenman began to look 
on the repose of bachelorhood with a kinder 
eye, on its loneliness with a more tolerant 
disposition. He went so far as to remember 
that, if the worst came to the worst, he had 
another invitation for the following week. 

The Spirit of Discord (The tragic at¬ 
mosphere now gathering justifies these fig¬ 
ures of speech — the chronicler must rise 
to the occasion of a heroine in tears), having 
wrought her fell work at Nab Grange, now 
winged her way to the towers of Scarsmoor 
Castle. 


[ 177 ] 


Helena s Path 

Dinner had passed off quite as Lynbor- 
ough anticipated; he had enjoyed himself 
exceedingly. Whenever the temporary ab¬ 
sence of the servants allowed, he had rallied 
his friends on their susceptibility to beauty, 
on their readiness to fail him under its lures, 
on their clumsy attempts at concealment 
of their growing intimacy, and their con¬ 
fidential relations, with the fascinating mis¬ 
tress of Nab Grange. He too had been told 
to take his case into the Courts or to drop 
his claim — and had laughed triumphantly 
at the advice. He had laughed when Stabb 
said that he really could not pursue his work 
in the midst of such distractions, that his 
mind was too perturbed for scientific thought. 
He had laughed lightly and good-humoredly 
even when (as they were left alone over 
coffee) Roger Wilbraham, going suddenly 
a little white, said he thought that persecut- 
[ 178 ] 


In the Last Resort! 

ing a lady was no fit amusement for a gentle¬ 
man. Lynborough did not suppose that the 
Marchesa — with the battle of the day at 
least drawn, if not decided in her favor — 
could be regarded as the subject of perse¬ 
cution — and he did recognize that young 
fellows, under certain spells, spoke hotly 
and were not to be held to serious account. 
He was smiling still when, with a forced 
remark about the heat, the pair went out 
together to smoke on the terrace. He had 
some letters to read, and for the moment 
dismissed the matter from his mind. 

In ten minutes young Roger Wilbraham 
returned; his manner was quiet now, but 
his face still rather pale. He came up to the 
table by which Lynborough sat. 

‘‘ Holding the position I do in your house. 
Lord Lynborough,” he said, “I had no 
right to use the words I used this evening at 
\l79] 


Helena^ s Path 

dinner. I apologize for them. But, on the 
other hand, I have no wish to hold a posi¬ 
tion which prevents me from using those 
words when they represent what I think. I 
beg you to accept my resignation, and I shall 
be greatly obliged if you can arrange to re¬ 
lieve me of my duties as soon as possible.” 

Lynborough heard him without interrup¬ 
tion; with grave impassive face, with sur¬ 
prise, pity, and a secret amusement. Even 
if he were right, he was so solemn over it! 

The young man waited for no answer. 
With the merest indication of a bow, he left 
Lynborough alone, and passed on into the 
house. 

“Well, now!” said Lord Lynborough, 
rising and lighting a cigar. “ This Marchesa! 
Well, now!” 

Stabb’s heavy form came lumbering in 
from the terrace; he seemed to move more 
[ 180 ] 


In the Last Resort! 

heavily than ever, as though his bulk were 
even unusually inert. He plumped down into 
a chair and looked up at Lynborough’s 
graceful figure. 

“ I meant what I said at dinner, Ambrose. 
I wasn’t joking, though I suppose you 
thought I was. All this affair may amuse you 
— it worries me. I can’t settle to work. If 
you’ll be so kind as to send me over to Eas- 
thorpe to-morrow. I’ll be off — back to 
Oxford.” 

“ Cromlech, old boy!” 

“Yes, I know. But I — I don’t want to 
stay, Ambrose. I’m not — comfortable.” 
His great face set in a heavy, disconsolate, 
wrinkled frown. 

Lord Lynborough pursed his lips in a 
momentary whistle, then put his cigar back 
into his mouth, and walked out on to the 
terrace. 


[ 181 ] 


Helena’s Path 

‘‘This Marchesa!” said he again. “This 
very remarkable Marchesa! Her riposte is 
admirable. Really I venture to hope that I, 
in my turn, have very seriously disturbed 
her household!” 

He walked to the edge of the terrace, and 
stood there musing. Sandy Nab loomed up, 
dimly the sea rose and fell, twinkled and 
sank into darkness. It talked too — talked to 
Lynborough with a soft, low, quiet voice; it 
seemed (to his absurdly whimsical imagina¬ 
tion) as though some lovely woman gently 
stroked his brow and whispered to him. 
He liked to encourage such freaks of fancy. 

Cromlech couldn’t go. That was absurd. 

And the young fellow ? So much a gentle¬ 
man! Lynborough had liked the terms of 
his apology no less than the firmness of his 
protest. “ It’s the first time, I think, that I’ve 
been told that I’m no gentleman,’* he re- 
[ 182 ] 


In the Last Resort I 

fleeted with amusement. But Roger had 
been pale when he said it. Imaginatively 
Lynborough assumed his place. “A brave 
boy,” he said. “And that dear old knight- 
errant of a Cromlech!” 

A space — room indeed and room enough 
— for the softer emotions — so much Lyn¬ 
borough was ever inclined to allow. But to 
acquiesce in this state of things as final — 
that was to admit defeat at the hands of the 
Marchesa. It was to concede that one day 
had changed the whole complexion of the 
fight. 

“ Cromlech sha’n’t go — the boy sha’n’t 
go — and I’ll still use the path,” he thought. 
“Not that I really care about the path, you 
know.” He paused. “Well, yes, I do care 
about it — for bathing in the morning.” 
He hardened his heart against the Marchesa. 
She chose to fight; the fortune of war must 
[ 183 ] 


Helena's Path 

be hers. He turned his eyes down to Nab 
Grange. Lights burned there — were her 
guests demanding to be sent to Easthorpe ? 
Why, no! As he looked, Lynborough came 
to the conclusion that she had reduced them 
all to order — that they would be whipped 
back to heel — that his manoeuvers (and 
his lunch I) had probably been wasted. 
He was beaten then ? 

He scorned the conclusion. But if he were 
not — the result was deadlock! Then still 
he was beaten; for unless Helena (he called 
her that) owned his right, his right was to 
him as nothing. 

“I have made myself a champion of my 
sex,” he said. “Shall I be beaten?” 

In that moment — with all the pang of 
forsaking an old conviction — of disowning 
that stronger tie, the loved embrace of an 
ancient and perversely championed prejudice 
[ 184 ] 


In the Last Resort I 

— he declared that any price must be paid 
for victory. 

“Heaven forgive me, but, sooner than be 
beaten. I’ll go to law with her!” he cried. 

A face appeared from between two bushes 

— a voice spoke from the edge of the terrace. 
“I thought you might be interested to 

hear-” 

“Lady Norah.?” 

“Yes, it’s me — to hear that you’ve made 
her cry — and very bitterly. ” 


[ 185 ] 



Chapter Eleven 


AN ARMISTICE 

Lord Lynborough walked down to the edge 
of the terrace; Lady Norah stood half hid¬ 
den in the shrubbery. 

“And that, I suppose, ought to end the 
matter.^” he asked. “I ought at once to 
abandon all my pretensions and to give up 
my path 

“I just thought you might like to know 
it,” said Norah. 

“ Actually I believe I do like to know it — 
though what Roger would say to me about 
that I really can’t imagine. You’re mis¬ 
taking my character. Lady Norah. I’m not 
the hero of this piece. There are several 
[ 186 ] 


An Armistice 

gentlemen from among whom you can choose 
one for that effective part. Lots of candidates 
for it! But I’m the villain. Consequently 
you must be prepared for my receiving 
your news with devilish glee.” 

“Well, "ou haven’t seen it — and I 
have.” 

“Welf put!” he allowed. “How did it 
happen .?” 

“ Over something I said to her — some¬ 
thing horrid.” 

“ Well, then, why am I— Lynborough’s 

hands expostulated eloquently. 

“ But you were the real reason, of course. 
She thinks you’ve turned us all against her; 
she says it’s so mean to get her own friends to 
turn against her.” 

“Does she now.^” asked Lord Lynbor- 
ough with a thoughtful smile. 

Norah too smiled faintly. “She says she’s 
[ 187 ] 


Helena s Path 

not angry with us — she’s just sorry for us 

— because she understands-” 

“What?” 

“ I mean she says she — she can imagine 

— ” Norah’s smile grew a little more 
pronounced. “I’m not sure she’d like me 
to repeat that,” said Norah. “And of course 
she doesn’t know I’m here at all — and you 
must never tell her.” 

“ Of course it’s all my fault. Still, as a mat¬ 
ter of curiosity, what did you say to her ?” 

“I said that, if she had a good case, she 
ought to go to law; and, if she hadn’t, she 
ought to stop making herself ridiculous and 
the rest of us uncomfortable.” 

“You spoke with the general assent of thd 
company ?” 

“ I said what I thought — yes, I think 
they all agreed — but she took it — well, 
in the way I’ve told you, you know.” 

[ 188 ] 



An Armistice 

Lady Norah had, in the course of conver¬ 
sation, insensibly advanced on to the ter¬ 
race. She stood there now beside Lyn- 
borough. 

“How do you think I’m taking it.^^” he 
asked. “ Doesn’t my fortitude wring applause 
from you 

“Taking what 

“ Exactly the same thing from my 
friends. They tell me to go to law if I’ve 
got a case — and at any rate to stop per¬ 
secuting a lady. And they’ve both given me 
warning.” 

“ Mr. Stabb and Mr. Wilbraham ? They’re 
going away 

“ So it appears. Carry back those tidings. 
Won’t they dry the Marchesa’s’ tears 

Norah looked at him with a smile. “ Well, 
it is pretty clever of her, isn’t it ?” she said. 
“I didn’t think she’d got along as quickly 
[ 189 ] 


Helena s Path 

as that!” Norali’s voice was full of an honest 
and undisguised admiration. 

“ It’s a little unreasonable of her to cry 
under the circumstances. I’m not crying, 
Lady Norah. ” 

“ I expect you’re rather disgusted, though, 
aren’t you.^” she suggested. 

“ I’m a little vexed at having to surrender 
— for the moment — a principle which I’ve 
held dear — at having to give my enemies an 
occasion for mockery. But I must bow to 
my friends’ wishes. I can’t lose them under 
such painful circumstances. No, I must 
yield. Lady Norah.” 

“You’re going to give up the path she 
cried, not sure whether she were pleased or 
not with his determination. 

“Dear me, no! I’m going to law about 
it.” 

Open dismay was betrayed in her excla- 
[ 190 ] 


An Armistice 

mation: “Oh, but what will Mr. Stillford 
say to that?” 

Lynborough laughed. Nor ah saw her mis¬ 
take — but she made no attempt to remedy 
it. She took up another line of taetics. “It 
would all come right if only you knew one 
another! She’s the most wonderful woman 
in the world, Lord Lynborough. And 
you-” 

“Well, what of me ?” he asked in deceit¬ 
ful gravity. 

Norah parried, with a hasty little laugh; 
“Just ask Miss Gilletson that!” 

Lynborough smiled for a moment, then 
took a turn along the terrace, and came 
back to her. 

“You must tell her that you’ve seen me 


“I couldn’t do that!” 

“You must — or here the matter ends, 
[ 191 ] 



Helena's Path 

and I shall be forced to go to law — ugh'i 
Tell her you’ve seen me, and that I’m open 
to reason-’’ 

“Lord Lynborough! How can I tell her 
that ?” 

“That I’m open to reason, and that I 
propose an armistice. Not peace — not 
yet, anyhow — but an armistice. I under¬ 
take not to exercise my right over Beach 
Path for a week from to-day, and before 
the end of that week I will submit a pro¬ 
posal to the Marchesa. ” 

Norah saw a gleam of hope. “Very well. 
I don’t know what she’ll say to me, but I’ll 
tell her that. Thank you. You’ll make it a 
— a pleasant proposal 

“ I haven’t had time to consider the 
proposal yet. She must inform me to-mor¬ 
row morning whether she accepts the ar¬ 
mistice.” 


[ 192 ] 



An Armistice 

He suddenly turned to the house, and 
shouted up to a window above his head, 
“Roger!” 

The window was open. Roger Wilbraham 
put his head out. 

“ Come down, ” said Lynborough. “ Here’s 
somebody wants to see you.” 

“I never said I did. Lord Lynborough.” 

“ Let him take you home. He wants cheer¬ 
ing up.” 

“I like him very much. He won’t really 
leave you, will he 

“I want you to persuade him to stay 
during the armistice. I’m too proud to ask 
him for myself. I shall think very little 
of you, however, if he doesn’t.” 

Roger appeared. Lynborough told him 
that Lady Norah required an escort back to 
Nab Grange; for obvious reasons he himself 
was obliged to relinquish the pleasure; 

[ 193 ] 


Helena s Path 

Roger, he felt sure, would be charmed to 
take his place. Roger was somewhat puzzled 
by the turn of events, but delighted with his 
mission. 

Lynborough saw them off, went into the 
library, sat down at his writing-table, and 
laid paper before him. But he sat idle for 
many minutes. Stabb came in, his arms full 
of books. 

“I think I left some of my stuff here,” 
he said, avoiding Lynborough’s eye. “I’m 
just getting it together.” 

“Drop that lot too. You’re not going to¬ 
morrow, Cromlech, there’s an armistice.” 

Stabb put his books down on the table, 
and came up to him with outstretched hand. 
Lynborough leaned back, his hands clasped 
behind his head. 

“Wait for a week,” he said. “We may. 
Cromlech, arrive at an accommodation. 

[ 194 ] 


An Armistice 

Meanwhile, for that week, I do not use the 
path.” 

“I’ve been feeling pretty badly, Ambrose. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I don’t think it’s safe to expose you 
to the charms of beauty.” He looked at his 
friend in good-natured mockery. “ Return 
to your tombs in peace.” 

The next morning he received a com¬ 
munication from Nab Grange. It ran as 
follows: 

“The Marchesa di San Servolo presents 
her compliments to Lord Lynborough. The 
Marchesa will be prepared to consider any 
proposal put forward by Lord Lynborough, 
and will place no hindrance in the way 
of Lord Lynborough’s using the path across 
her property if it suits his convenience to 
do so in the meantime.” 

“No, no!” said Lynborough, as he took a 
sheet of paper. 


[ 195 ] 


Helena s Path 

“Lord Lynborougli presents his compli¬ 
ments to her Excellency the Marchesa di 
San Servolo. Lord Lynborough will take an 
early opportunity of submitting his proposal 
to the Marchesa di San Servolo. He is 
obliged for the Marchesa di San Servolo’s 
suggestion that he should in the meantime 
use Beach Path, but cannot consent to do 
so except in the exercise of his right. He 
will therefore not use Beach Path during 
the ensuing week.’’ 

“And now to pave the way for my pro¬ 
posal!” he thought. For the proposal, which 
had assumed a position so important in the 
relations between the Marchesa and himself, 
was to be of such a nature that a grave 
question arose how best the way should be 
paved for it. 

The obvious course was to set his spies 
to work — he could command plenty of 
[ 196 ] 


An Armistice 

friendly help among the Nab Grange garri¬ 
son — learn the Marchesa’s probable move¬ 
ments, throw himself in her way, contrive 
an acquaintance, make himself as pleasant 
as he could, establish relations of amity, of 
cordiality, even of friendship and of inti¬ 
macy. That might prepare the way, and incline 
her to accept the proposal — to take the 
jest — it was little more in hard reality — 
in the spirit in which he put it forward, 
and so to end her resistance. 

That seemed the reasonable method — 
the plain and rational line of advance. 
Accordingly Lynborough disliked and dis¬ 
trusted it. He saw another way — more full 
of risk, more hazardous in its result, making 
an even greater demand on his confidence in 
himself, perhaps also on the qualities with 
which his imagination credited the Mar- 
chesa. But, on the other hand, this alternative 
[ 197 ] 


Helena^s Path 

was far richer in surprise, in dash — as it 
seemed to him, in gallantry and a touch of 
romance. It was far more medieval, more 
picturesque, more in keeping with the actual 
proposal itself. For the actual proposal was 
one which, Lynborough flattered himself, 
might well have come from a powerful yet 
chivalrous baron of old days to a beautiful 
queen who claimed a suzerainty which not 
her power, but only her beauty, could com¬ 
mand or enforce. 

“It suits my humor, and I’ll do it!” he 
said. “She sha’n’t see me, and I won’t 
see her. The first she shall hear from me 
shall be the proposal; the first time we 
meet shall be on the twenty-fourth — or 
never! A week from to-day — the twenty- 
fourth.” 

Now the twenty-fourth of June is, as all 
the world knows (or an almanac will inform 
[I98il 


An Armistice 

the heathen), the Feast of St. John Baptist 
also called Midsummer Day. 

So he disappeared from the view of Nab 
Grange and the inhabitants thereof. He 
never left his own grounds; even within 
them he shunned the public road; his be¬ 
loved sea-bathing he abandoned. Nay, more, 
he strictly charged Roger Wilbraham, who 
often during this week of armistice went to 
play golf or tennis at the Grange, to say 
nothing of him; the same instructions were 
laid on Stabb in case, on his excursions 
amidst the tombs, he should meet any 
member of the Marchesa’s party. So far as 
the thing could be done. Lord Lynborough 
obliterated himself. 

It was playing a high stake on a risky 
hand. Plainly it assumed an interest in him¬ 
self on the part of the Marchesa — an in¬ 
terest so strong that absence and mystery 
[199] 


Helena s Path 

(if perchance he achieved a flavor of that 
attraction!) would foster and nourish it 
more than presence and friendship could 
conduce to its increase. She might think 
nothing about him during the week! Im¬ 
possible surely — with all that had gone 
before, and with his proposal to come at the 
end! But if it were so — why, so he was 
content. ‘‘ In that case, she’s a woman of no 
imagination, of no taste in the picturesque,” 
he said. 

For five days the Marchesa gave no sign, 
no clue to her feelings which the anxious 
watchers could detect. She did indeed suffer 
Colonel Wenman to depart all forlorn, most 
unsuccessful and uncomforted — save by 
the company of his brother-in-arms. Cap¬ 
tain Irons; and he was not cheerful either, 
having failed notably in certain designs on 
Miss Dufaure which he had been pursuing, 
[200 


An Armistice 

but whereunto more pressing matters have 
not allowed of attention being given. But 
Lord Lynborough she never mentioned — 
not to Miss Gilletson, nor even to Norah. 
She seemed to have regained her tranquillity; , 
her wrath at least was over; she was very 
friendly to all the ladies; she was markedly 
cordial to Roger Wilbraham on his visits. 
But she asked him nothing of Lord Lyn¬ 
borough — and, if she ever looked from the 
window toward Scarsmoor Castle, none 
— not even her observant maid — saw her 
do it. 

Yet Cupid was in the Grange — and very 
busy. There were signs, not to be misunder¬ 
stood, that Violet had not for handsome 
Stillford the scorn she had bestowed on un¬ 
fortunate Irons; and Roger, humbly and 
distantly worshiping the Marchesa, deem¬ 
ing her far as a queen beyond his reach, 
[ 201 ] 


Helena^s Path 

rested his eyes and solaced his spirit with the 
less awe-inspiring charms, the more acces¬ 
sible comradeship, of Norah Mountliffey. 
Norah, as her custom was, flirted hard, yet 
in her delicate fashion. Though she had not 
^ begun to ask herself about the end yet, 
she was well amused, and by no means in¬ 
sensible to Roger’s attractions. Only she 
was preoccupied with Helena — and Lord 
Lynborough. Till that riddle was solved, 
she could not turn seriously to her own 
affairs. 

On the night of the twenty-second she 
walked with the Marchesa in the gardens of 
the Grange after dinner. Helena was very 
silent; yet to Norah the silence did not seem 
empty. Over against them, on its high hill, 
stood Scarsmoor Castle. -Roger had dined 
with them, but had now gone back. 

Suddenly — and boldly — Norah spoke. 

[ 202 ] 


An Armistice 

“Do you see those three lighted windows 
on the ground floor at the left end of the 
house ? That’s his library, Helena. He sits 
there in the evening. Oh, I do wonder what 
he’s been doing all this week!” 

“What does it matter.?^” asked the Mar- 
chesa coldly. 

“What will he propose, do you think 

“ Mr. Stillford thinks he may offer to pay 
me some small rent — more or less nominal 
— for a perpetual right — and that, if he 
does, I’d better accept.” 

“That’ll be rather a dull ending to it all.” 

“ Mr. Stillford thinks it would be a favor¬ 
able one for me.” 

“I don’t believe he means to pay you 
money. It’ll be something” — she paused a 
moment — “something prettier than that.” 

“What has prettiness to do with it, you 
child ? With a right of way ?” 

[203] 


Helena^s Path 

“Prettiness has to do with you, though, 
Helena. You don’t suppose he thinks only 
of that wretched path 

The flush came on the Marchesa’s cheek. 
“ He can hardly be said to have seen me, ” 
she protested. 

“ Then look your best when he does — 
for I’m sure he’s dreamed of you. ” 

“Why do you say that.^” 

Norah laughed. Because he’s a man who 
takes a lot of notice of pretty women — and 
he took so very little notice of me. That’s 
why I think so, Helena. ” 

The Marchesa made no comment on the 
reason given. But now —at last and undoubt¬ 
edly — she looked across at the windows 
of Scarsmoor. 

“We shall come to some business ar¬ 
rangement, I suppose — and then it’ll all 
be over,” she said. 

[204] 


An Armistice 

All over ? The trouble and the enmity — 
the defiance and the fight — the excitement 
and the fun ? The duel would be stayed, the 
combatants and their seconds would go 
their various ways across the diverging 
tracks of this great dissevering world. 
All would be over! 

“Then we shall have time to think of 
something else!” the Marchesa added. 

Norah smiled discreetly. Was not that 
something of an admission ? 

In the library at Scarsmoor Lynborough 
was inditing the proposal which he intended 
to submit by his ambassadors on the mor¬ 
row. 


[ 205 ] 


Chapter Twelve 


AN EMBASSAGE 

The Marchesa’s last words to Lady Norah 
betrayed the state of her mind. While the 
question of the path was pending, she had 
been unable to think of anything else; until 
it was settled she could think of nobody 
except of the man in whose hands the settle¬ 
ment lay. Whether Lynborough attracted 
or repelled, he at least occupied and filled 
her thoughts. She had come to recognize 
where she stood and to face the position. 
Stillford’s steady pessimism left her no hope 
from an invocation of the law; Lynborough’s 
dexterity and resource promised her no 
abiding victory — at best only precarious 
[ 206 ] 


An Embassage 

temporary successes — in a private con¬ 
tinuance of the struggle. Worst of all — 
whilst she chafed or wept, he laughed! 
Certainly not to her critical friends, hardly 
even to her proud self, would she confess 
that she lay in her antagonist’s mercy; but 
the feeling of that was in her heart. If so 
he could humiliate her sorely. 

Could he spare her ? Or would he ? Try 
how she might, it was hard to perceive 
how he could spare her without abandoning 
his right. That she was sure he would not 
do; all she heard of him, every sharp intui¬ 
tion of him which she had, the mere glimpse 
of his face as he passed by on Sandy Nab, 
told her that. 

But if he consented to pay a small — a 
nominal — rent, would not her pride be 
spared ? No. That would be victory for him; 
she would be compelled to surrender what 
207] 


Helena's Path 

she had haughtily refused, in return for 
something which she did not want and 
which was of no value. If that were a cloak 
for her pride, the fabric of it was terribly 
threadbare. Even such concession as lay in 
such an offer she had wrung from him by 
setting his friends against him; would that 
incline him to tenderness ? The offer might 
leave his friends still unreconciled; what 
comfort was that to her when once the fight 
and the excitement of countering blow with 
blow were done — when all was over ? And 
it was more likely that what seemed to her 
cruel would seem to Stabb and Roger 
reasonable — men had a terribly rigid sense 
of reason in business matters. They would 
return to their allegiance; her friends would 
be ranged on the same side; she would be 
alone — alone in humiliation and defeat. 
From that fate in the end only Lynborough 
[ 208 ] 


An Embassage 

himself could rescue her; only the man who 
threatened her with it could avert it. And 
how could even he, save by a surrender 
which he would not make ? Yet if he found 
out a way ? 

The thought of that possibility — though 
she could devise or imagine no means by 
which it might find accomplishment — 
carried her toward Lynborough in a rush 
of feeling. The idea — never wholly lost even 
in her moments of anger and dejection — 
came back — the idea that all the time he 
had been playing a game, that he did not 
want the wounds to be mortal, that in the 
end he did not hate. If he did not hate, he 
would not desire to hurt. But he desired to 
win. Could he win without hurting ? Then 
there was a reward for him — applause for 
his cleverness, and gratitude for his chivalry. 

Stretching out her arms toward Scarsmoor 
[209] 


Helena's Path 

Castle, she vowed that according to his deed 
she could hate or love Lord Lynborough. 
The next day was to decide that weighty 
question. 

The fateful morning arrived — the last 
day of the armistice — the twenty-third. 
The ladies were sitting on the lawn after 
breakfast when Stillford came out of the 
house with a quick step and an excited air. 

“Marchesa,” he said, “the Embassy 
has arrived! Stabb and Wilbraham are at 
the front door, asking an audience of you. 
They bring the proposal! ” 

The Marchesa laid down her book; Miss 
Gilletson made no effort to conceal her 
agitation. 

“Why didn’t they come by the path?” 
cried Norah. 

“They couldn’t very well; Lynborough’s 
sent them in a carriage — with postilions 
[ 210 ] 


An Embassage 

and four horses, ” Stillford answered gravely. 
“The postilions appear to be amused, but 
the Ambassadors are exceedingly solemn.” 

The Marchesa’s spirits rose. If the piece 
were to be a comedy, she could play her part! 
The same idea was in Stillford’s mind. 
“ He can’t mean to be very unpleasant if he 
plays the fool like this,” he said, looking 
round on the company with a smile. 

“Admit the Ambassadors!” cried the 
Marchesa gaily. 

The Ambassadors were ushered on to the 
lawn. They advanced with a gravity be¬ 
fitting the occasion, and bowed low to the 
Marchesa. Roger carried a roll of paper of 
impressive dimensions. Stillford placed 
chairs for the Ambassadors and, at a sign 
from the Marchesa, they seated themselves. 

“What is your message.^” asked the 
Marchesa. Suddenly nervousness and fear 
[ 211 ] 


Helenas Path 

laid hold of her again; her voice shook a 
little. 

“Wedon’t know,” answered Stabb. “Give 
me the document, Roger. ” 

Roger Wilbraham handed him the scroll. 

“We are charged to deliver this to your 
Excellency’s adviser, and to beg him to read 
it to you in our presence. ” He rose, delivered 
the scroll into Stillford’s hands, and re¬ 
turned, majestic in his bulk, to his seat. 

“You neither of you know what’s in it 
the Marchesa asked. 

They shook their heads. 

The Marchesa took hold of Norah’s hand 
and said quietly, “ Please read it to us, Mr. 
Stillford. I should like you all to hear. ” 

“That was also Lord Lynborough’s de¬ 
sire,” said Roger Wilbraham. 

Stillford unrolled the paper. It was all in 
Lynborough’s own hand — written large 
[ 212 ] 


An Embassage 

and with fair flourishes. In mockery of the 
institution he hated, he had cast it in a 
form which at all events aimed at being 
legal; too close scrutiny on that score per¬ 
haps it would not abid successfully. 

“Silence while the document is read!” 
said Stillford; and he proceeded to read it 
in a clear and deliberate voice: 

“ ‘Sir Ambrose Athelstan Caverly, Bar¬ 
onet, Baron Lynborough of Lynborough in 
the County of Dorset and of Scarsmoor in 
the County of Yorkshire, unto her Excel¬ 
lency Helena Vittoria Maria Antonia, Mar- 
chesa di San Servolo, and unto All to 
whom these Presents Come, Greeting. 
Whereas the said Lord Lynborough and his 
predecessors in title have been ever entitled 
as of right to pass and repass along the path 
called Beach Path leading across the lands 
of Nab Grange from the road bounding the 
[213] 


Helena's Path 

same on the west to the seashore on the east 
thereof, and to use the said path by them¬ 
selves, their agents and servants, at their 
pleasure, without let or interference from 
any person or persons whatsoever-’ ” 

Stillford paused and looked at the Mar- 
chesa. The document did not begin in a 
conciliatory manner. It asserted the right 
to use Beach Path in the most uncompro¬ 
mising way. 

“Go on,” commanded the Marchesa, 
a little flushed, still holding Norah’s hand. 

“ ‘And Whereas the said Lord Lyn- 
borough is desirous that his rights as above 
defined shall receive the recognition of the 
said Marchesa, which recognition has hither¬ 
to been withheld and refused by the said 
Marchesa: And Whereas great and manifold 
troubles have arisen from such refusal: 
And Whereas the said Lord Lynborough is 
[214] 



An Embassage 

desirous of dwelling in peace and amity with 
the said Marchesa-’ ” 

“There, Helena, you see he is!” cried 
Norah triumphantly. 

“I really must not be interrupted,” Still- 
ford protested. “ ‘Now Therefore the said 
Lord Lynborough, moved thereunto by 
divers considerations and in chief by his 
said desire to dwell in amity and good-will, 
doth engage and undertake that, in consider¬ 
ation of his receiving a full, gracious, and 
amicable recognition of his right from the 
said Marchesa, he shall and will, year by 
year and once a year, to wit on the Feast of 
St. John Baptist, also known as Midsummer 
Day-’ ” 

“ Why, that’s to-morrow 1 ” exclaimed Vio¬ 
let Dufaure. 

Once more Stillford commanded silence. 
The Terms of Peace were not to be rudely 
[215] 



Helena's Path 

interrupted just as they were reaching the 
most interesting point. For up to now 
nothing had come except a renewed asser¬ 
tion of Lynborough’s right! 

“ ‘That is to say the twenty-fourth day 
of June — repair in his own proper person, 
with or without attendants as shall seem 
to him good, to Nab Grange or such other 
place as may then and on each occasion be 
the abode and residence of the said Mar- 
chesa, and shall and will present himself 
in the presence of the said Marchesa at noon. 
And that he then shall and will do homage 
to the said Marchesa for such full, gracious, 
and amicable recognition as above men¬ 
tioned by falling on his knee and kissing 
the hand of the said Marchesa. And if the 
said Lord Lynborough shall wilfully or by 
neglect omit so to present himself and so 
to pay his homage on any such Feast of St. 

[ 216 ] 


An Embassage 

John Baptist, then his said right shall be of 
no effect and shall be suspended (And he 
hereby engages not to exercise the same) 
until he shall have purged his contempt or 
neglect by performing his homage on the 
next succeeding Feast. Provided Always 
that the said Marchesa shall and will, 
a sufficient time before the said Feast in each 
year, apprise and inform the said Lord 
Lynborough of her intended place of resi¬ 
dence, in default whereof the said Lord Lyn¬ 
borough shall not be bound to pay his hom¬ 
age and shall suffer no diminution of his 
right by reason of the omission thereof. 
Provided Further and Finally that whenso¬ 
ever the said Lord Lynborough shall duly 
and on the due date as in these Presents 
stipulated present himself at Nab Grange 
or elsewhere the residence for the time be¬ 
ing of the said Marchesa, and claim to be 
[ 217 ] 


Helena s Path 

admitted to the presence of the said Marchesa 
and to perform his homage as herein pre¬ 
scribed and ordered, the said Marchesa shall 
not and will not, on any pretext or for any 
cause whatsoever, deny or refuse to accept 
the said homage so duly proffered, but shall 
and will in all gracious condescension and 
neighborly friendship extend and give her 
hand to the said Lord Lynborough, to the 
end and purpose that, he rendering and she 
accepting his homage in all mutual trust and 
honorable confidence. Peace may reign 
between Nab Grange and Scarsmoor Castle 
so long as they both do stand. In Witness 
whereof the said Lord Lynborough has 
affixed his name on the Eve of the said 
Feast of St. John Baptist. 

Lynborough.’ ” 
Stillford ended his reading, and handed 
the scroll to the Marchesa with a bow. 

[ 218 ] 


An Embassage 

She took it and looked at Lynborough’s 
signature. Her cheeks were flushed, and 
her lips struggled not to smile. The rest were 
silent. She looked at Stillford, who smiled 
back at her and drew from his pocket — a 
stylographic pen. 

“Yes,” she said, and took it. 

She wrote below Lynborough’s name: 

“ In Witness whereof, in a desire for peace 
and amity, in all mutual trust and honor¬ 
able confidence, the said Marchesa has 
aflSxed her name on this same Eve of the 
said Feast of St. John Baptist. 

Helena di San Servolo.” 

She handed it back to Stillford. “Let it 
dry in the beautiful sunlight,” she said. 

The Ambassadors rose to their feet. She 
rose too and went over to Stabb with 
outstretched hands. A broad smile spread 
over Stabb’s spacious face. “It’s just like 
[ 219 ] 


Helena's Path 

Ambrose,” he said to her as he took her 
hands. “ He gets what he wants — but in the 
prettiest way!” 

She answered him in a low voice: “A 
very knightly way of saving a foolish wo¬ 
man’s pride.” She raised her voice. “Bid 
Lord Lynborough — aye. Sir Ambrose 
Athelstan Caverly, Baron Lynborough, at¬ 
tend here at Nab Grange to pay his homage 
to-morrow at noon.” She looked round on 
them all, smiling now openly, the red in her 
cheeks all triumphant over her olive hue. 
“Say I will give him private audience to 
receive his homage and to ask his friend¬ 
ship.” With that the Marchesa departed, 
somewhat suddenly, into the house. 

Amid much merriment and reciprocal 
congratulations the Ambassadors were hon¬ 
orably escorted back to their coach and 
four. 


[ 220 ] 


An Embassage 

“Keep your eye on the Castle to-night,” 
Roger Wilbraham whispered to Norah as 
he pressed her hand. 

They drove off, Stillford leading a gay 
“Hurrah!” 

At night indeed Scarsmoor Castle was a 
sight to see. Every window of its front 
blazed with light; rockets and all manner 
of amazing bright devices rose to heaven. 
All Fillby turned out to see the show; all 
Nab Grange was in the garden looking on. 

All save Helena herself. She had re¬ 
treated to her own room; there she sat and 
watched alone. She was in a fever of feeling 
and could not rest. She twisted one hand 
round the other, she held up before her 
eyes the hand which was destined to receive 
homage on the morrow. Her eyes were 
bright, her cheeks flushed, her red lips 
trembled. 


[221 ] 


Helena^s Path 


“Alas, how this man knows his way to 
my heart!” she sighed. 

The blaze at Scarsmoor Castle died down. 
A kindly darkness fell. Under its friendly 
cover she kissed her hand to the Castle, 
murmuring “To-morrow!” 


[m] 


Chapter Thirteen 


THE FEAST OF ST. JOHN BAPTIST 

“As there’s a heaven above us,” wrote 
Lynborough that same night — having been, 
one would fain hope, telepathically conscious 
of the hand-kissing by the red lips, of the 
softly breathed To-morrow! ” (for if he 
were not, what becomes of Love’s Magic ?) 
— “As there’s a heaven above us, I have 
succeeded! Her answer is more than a con¬ 
sent — it’s an appreciation. The rogue knew 
how she stood: she is haughtily, daintily 
grateful. Does she know how near she drove 
me to the abominable thing Almost had 
I — I, Ambrose Caverly — issued a writ! 
I should never, in all my life, have got over 
[ 223 ] 


Helena s Path 

the feeling of being a bailiff! She has saved 
me by the rightness of her taste. ‘Knightly’ 
she called it to old Cromlech. Well, that was 
in the blood — it had been my own fault if 
I had lost it, no credit of mine if to some 
measure I have it still. But to find the 
recognition! I have lit up the country-side 
to-night to celebrate that rare discovery. 

“ Rare — yes — yet not doubted. I knew 
it of her. I believe that I have broken all 
records — since the Renaissance at least. 
Love at first sight! Where’s the merit in 
that ? Given the sight be fine enough (a 
thing that I pray may not admit of doubt in 
the case of Helena), it is no exploit; it is 
rather to suffer the inevitable than to achieve 
the great. But unless the sight of a figure a 
hundred yards away — and of a back fifty 
— is to count against me as a practical 
inspection, I am so supremely lucky as never 
[ 224 ] 


The Feast of St. John Baptist 
to have seen her! I have made her for my¬ 
self — a few tags of description, a noting 
of the effect on Roger and on Cromlech, 
mildly (and very unimaginatively) aided 
my work, I admit — but for the most part 
and in all essentials, she, as I love her (for 
of course I love her, or no amount of Feast 
of St. John Baptist should have moved me 
from my path — take that for literal or for 
metaphorical as ye will!) — is of my own 
craftsmanship — work of my heart and 
brain, wrought just as I would have her — 
as I knew, through all delightful wander¬ 
ings, that some day she must come to me. 

“ Think then of my mood for to-morrow! 
With what feelings do I ring the bell (unless 
perchance it be a knocker)! With what 
sensations accost the butler! With what 
emotions enter the presence! Because if 
by chance I am wrong—! Upon which 
[ 225 ] 


Helena's Path 

awful doubt arises the question whether, if 
I be wrong, I can go back. I am plaguily 
the slave of putting the thing as prettily 
as it can be put (Thanks, Cromlech, for 
giving me the adverb — not so bad a touch 
for a Man of Tombs!), and, on my soul, I 
have put that homage of mine so prettily 
that one who was prudent would have ad¬ 
dressed it to none other than a married lady 

— vivente marito, be it understood. But from 
my goddess her mortal mate is gone — and 
to explain — nay, not to explain (which 
would indeed tax every grace of style) 

— but to let it appear that the homage 
lingers, abides, and is confined within the 
letter of the bond — that would seem scarce 
‘knightly.’ Therefore, being (as all tell me) 
more of a fool than most men, and (as I 
soberly hope) not less of a gentleman, I 
stand thus. I love the Image I have made 

[ 226 ] 


The Feast of St. John Baptist 
out of dim distant sight, prosaic shreds of 
catalogued description, a vividly creating 
mind, and — to be candid — the absolute 
necessity of amusing myself in the country. 
But the Woman I am to see to-morrow ? 
Is she the Image ? I shall know in the first 
moment of our encounter. If she is, all is 
well for me — for her it will be just a ques¬ 
tion of her dower of heavenly venturousness. 
If she is not — in my humble judgment, 
you, Ambrose Caverly, having put the thing 
with so excessive a prettiness, shall for your 
art’s sake perish — you must, in short, if 
you would end this thing in the manner 
(creditable to yourself, Ambrose!) in which 
it has hitherto been conducted, willy-nilly, 
hot or cold, confirmed in divine dreams or 
slapped in the face by disenchanting fact — 
within a brief space of time, propose mar¬ 
riage to this lady. If there be any other course, 

[m] 


Helena's Path 

the gods send me scent of it this night! But 
if she should refuse ? Reckon not on that. 
For the more she fall short of her Image, the 
more will she grasp at an outward showing 
of triumph — and the greatest outward 
triumph would not be in refusal. 

“ In my human weakness I wish that — 
just for once — I had seen her! But in the 
strong spirit of the wine of life — whereof 
I have been and am an inveterate and most 
incurable bibber — I rejoice in that wonder¬ 
ful moment of mine to-morrow — when the 
door of the shrine opens, and I see the god¬ 
dess before whom my offering must be laid. 
Be she giant or dwarf, be she black or white, 
have she hair or none — by the powers, 
if she wears a sack only, and is well advised 
to stick close to that, lest casting it should 
be a change for the worse — in any event 
the offering must be made. Even so the 
[ 228 ] 


The Feast of St. John Baytist 
Prince in the tales, making his vows to the 
Beast and not yet knowing if his spell shall 
transform it to the Beauty! In my stronger 
moments, so would I have it. Years of life 
shall I live in that moment to-morrow! 
If it end ill, no human being but myself 
shall know. If it end well, the world is not 
great enough to hold, nor the music of its 
spheres melodious enough to sound, my 
triumph!” 

It will be observed that Lord Lynborough, 
though indeed no novice in the cruel and 
tender passion, was appreciably excited 
on the Eve of the Feast of St. John Baptist. 
In view of so handsome a response, the 
Marchesa’s kiss of the hand and her mur¬ 
mured “To-morrow” may pass excused of 
forwardness. 

It was, nevertheless, a gentleman to all 
seeming most cool and calm who presented 
[ 220 ] 


Helena s Path 

himself at the doors of Nab Grange at 
eleven fifty-five the next morning. His Am¬ 
bassadors had come in magnificence; hum¬ 
bly he walked — and not by Beach Path, 
since his homage was not yet paid — but 
round by the far-stretching road and up 
the main avenue most decorously. Stabb 
and Roger had cut across by the path — 
holding the Marchesa’s leave and license 
so to do — and had joined an excited group 
which sat on chairs under sheltering trees. 

“I wish she hadn’t made the audience 
private!” said Norah Mountliffey. 

“If ever a keyhole were justifiable—” 
sighed Violet Dufaure. 

“My dear, I’d box your ears myself,’" 
Miss Gilletson brusquely interrupted. 

The Marchesa sat in a high arm-chair, 
upholstered in tarnished fading gold. The 
sun from the window shone on her hair; 

[ 230 ] 


The Feast of St. John Baptist 
her face was half in shadow. She rested 
her head on her left; hand the right lay on 
her knee. It was stripped of any ring — 
unadorned white. Her cheeks were pale — 
the olive reigned unchallenged; her lips 
were set tight, her eyes downcast. She made 
no movement when Lord Lynborough en¬ 
tered. 

He bowed low, but said nothing. He 
stood opposite to her some two yards away. 
The clock ticked. It wanted still a minute 
before noon struck. That was the minute 
of which Lynborough had raved and dream¬ 
ed the night before. He had the fruit of it in 
full measure. 

The first stroke of twelve rang silvery 
from the clock. Lynborough advanced and 
fell upon his knee. She did not lift her eyes, 
but slowly raised her hand from her knee. 
He placed his hand under it, pressing it a 
[ 231 ] 


Helena^s Path 

little upward and bowing his head to meet 
it half-way in its ascent. She felt his lips 
lightly brush the skin. His homage for 
Beach Path and his right therein was duly 
paid. 

Slowly he rose to his feet; slowly her eyes 
turned upward to his face. It was ablaze 
with a great triumph; the fire seemed to 
spread to her cheeks. 

“It’s better than I dreamed or hoped,” 
he murmured. 

“ What ? To have peace between us ? 
Yes, it’s good.” 

“I have never seen your face before.” 
She made no answer. “Nor you mine?” 
he asked. 

“Once on Sandy Nab you passed by me. 
You didn’t notice me — but, yes, I saw you. ” 
Her eyes were steadily on him now; the 
flush had ceased to deepen, nay, had re- 
[ 232 ] 


The Feast of St. John Baptist 
ceded, but abode still, tingeing the olive 
of her cheeks. 

“I have rendered my homage,” he said. 

“It is accepted.” Suddenly tears sprang 
to her eyes. “And you might have been so 
cruel to me!” she whispered. 

“To you To you who carry the power 
of a world in your face 

The Marchesa was confused — as was, 
perhaps, hardly unnatural. 

“There are other things, besides gates 
and walls, and Norah’s head, that you jump 
over. Lord Lynborough.” 

“ I lived a life while I stood waiting for the 
clock to strike. I have tried for life before 
— in that minute I found it. ” He seemed 
suddenly to awake as though from a dream. 
“But I beg your pardon. I have paid my 
dues. The bond gives me no right to linger. ” 

She rose with a light laugh — yet it 
[ 233 ] 


\ 


Helena's Path 

sounded nervous. “Is it good-by till next St. 
John Baptist’s day 

“You would see me walking on Beach 
Bath day by day.” 

“I never call it Beach Path.” 

“May it now be called — Helena’s?” 

“Or will you stay and lunch with me to¬ 
day ? And you might even pay homage 
again — say to-morrow — or — or some day 
in the week.” 

“Lunch, most certainly. That commits 
me to nothing. Homage, Marchesa, is quite 
another matter.” 

“Your chivalry is turning to bargaining. 
Lord Lynborough.” 

“ It was never anything else, ” he answered. 
“Homage is rendered in payment — that’s 
why one says ‘Whereas.’ ” His keen eager 
eyes of hazel raised once more the flood of 
subdued crimson in her face. “For every 
[ 234 ] 


/ 


The Feast of St. John Baptist 
recognition of a right of mine, I will pay you 
homage according to the form prescribed for 
St. John Baptist’s Feast.” 

Of what other rights do you ask recogni¬ 
tion 

“There might be the right of welcoming 
you at Scarsmoor to-morrow?” 

She made him a little curtsy. “It is ac¬ 
corded — on the prescribed terms, my lord. ” 

“That will do for the twenty-fifth. There 
might be the right of escorting you home from 
Scarsmoor by the path called — Helena’s ?” 

“On the prescribed terms it is your lord¬ 
ship’s.” 

“ What then of the right to see you daily, 
and day by day ?” 

“If your leisure serves, my lord, I will 
endeavor to adjust mine — so long as we 
both remain at Fillby. But so that the hom¬ 
age is paid!” 


[ 235 ] 


Helena s Path 

“But if you go away?” 

“I’m bound to tell you of my where¬ 
abouts only on St. John Baptist’s Feast.” 

“ The right to know it on other days — 
would that be recognized in return for a 
homage, Marchesa ?” 

“One homage for so many letters ?” 

“ I had sooner there were no letters — 
and daily homages.” 

“You take too many obligations — and 
too lightly. ” 

“For every one I gain the recognition of a 
right.” 

“The richer you grow in rights then, the 
harder you must work!” 

“I would have so many rights accorded 
me as to be no better than a slave!” cried 
Lynborough. “Yet, if I have not one, still 
I have nothing.” 

She spoke no word, but looked at him 
[ 236 ] 


The Feast of St. John Baptist 
long and searchingly. She was not nervous 
now, but proud. Her look bade him weigh 
words; they had passed beyond the borders 
of merriment, beyond the bandying of 
challenges. Yet her eyes carried no pro¬ 
hibition; it was a warning only. She inter¬ 
posed no conventional check, no plea for 
time. She laid on him the responsibility 
for his speech; let him remember that he 
owed her homage. 

They grew curious and restless on the 
lawn; the private audience lasted long, the 
homage took much time in paying. 

“A marvelous thing has come to me,” 
said Lynborough, speaking slower than his 
wont, “and with it a great courage. I have 
seen my dream. This morning I came here 
not knowing whether I should see it. I 
don’t speak of the face of my dream-image 
only, though I could speak till next St. John’s 
[ 237 ] 


Helena s Path 

Day upon that. I speak to a soul. I think our 
souls have known one another longer, aye, 
and better than our faces.” 

“Yes, I think it is so,” she said quietly. 
“Yet who can tell so soon.^^” 

“There’s a great gladness upon me be¬ 
cause my dream came true. ” 

“Who can tell so soon she asked again. 
“ It’s strange to speak of it. ’ 

“ It may be that some day — yes, some 
day soon — in return for the homage of my 
lips on your hand, I would ask the recogni¬ 
tion of my lip’s right on your cheek.” 

She came up to him and laid her hand on 
his arm. “Suffer me a little while, my lord,” 
she said. “You’ve swept into my life like a 
whirlwind; you would carry me by assault 
as though I were a rebellious city. Am I 
to be won before ever I am wooed 

“You sha’n’t lack wooing,” he said quick- 
[ 238 ] 


The Feast of St. John Baptist 
ly. “Yet haven’t I wooed you already — as 
well in my quarrel as in my homage, in our 
strife as in the end of it 

“I think so, yes. Yet suffer me a little 
still.” 

“If you doubt—” he cried. 

“I don’t think I doubt. I linger.” She 
gave her hand into his. “It’s strange, but 
I cannot doubt.” 

Lynborough sank again upon his knee and 
paid his homage. As he rose, she bent ever 
so slightly toward him; delicately he kissed 
her cheek. 

“I pray you,” she whispered, “use gently 
what you took with that.” 

“Here’s a heart to my heart, and a spirit 
to my spirit — and a glad venture to us 
both!” 

“ Come on to the lawn now, but tell them 


nothing. ” 


[ 239 ] 


Helena s Path 


“Save that I have paid my homage, and 
received the recognition of my right 

“ That, if you will — and that your path 
is to be — henceforward — Helena’s. ” 

“I hope to have no need to travel far on 
the Feast of St. John!” cried Lynborough. 

They went out on the lawn. Nothing was 
asked, and nothing told, that day. In truth 
there appeared to be no need. For it seems 
as though Love were not always invisible, 
nor the twang of his bow so faint as to elude 
the ear. With joyous blood his glad wounds 
are red, and who will may tell the sufferers. 
Sympathy too lends insight; your fellow- 
sufferer knows your plight first. There were 
fellow-sufferers on the lawn that day — to 
whom, as to all good lovers, here’s God¬ 
speed . 

She went with him in the afternoon 
through the gardens, over the sunk fence, 
[ 240 ] 


The Feast of St. John Baptist 
across the meadows, till they came to the 
path. On it they walked together. 

“So is your right recognized, my lord,” 
she said. 

“ We will walk together on Helena’s 
Path,” he answered, “until it leads us — 
still together — to the Boundless Sea. ” 


THE END 


[241 ] 





LOVE’S LOGIC 


V V 






CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Mrs. Thistleton’s Princess.3 

The Necessary Resources. 42 

Miss Gladwin’s Chance.69 

The Prince Consort.104 

What Was Expected of Miss Constantine . 116 

Slim-Fingered Jim.152 

The Gray Frock.171 

Foreordained .189 

Prudence and the Bishop.203 

The Opened Door.214 

Love’s Logic.220 

‘‘ La Mort a la Mode ”.232 

The Riddle of Countess Runa.242 

‘The Lady and the Flagon .261 

The Duke’s Allotment.291 


























MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 


Chapter One 

T he Great Ones of the Earth do not come our 
way much down at Southam Parva. Our Mem¬ 
ber’s wife is an “Honorable,” and most of us, 
in referring to her, make express mention of that rank; 
moreover she comes very seldom. In the main our 
lot lies among the undistinguished, and our table of 
precedence is employed in determining the dividing 
lines between “Esquire,” “Mr.” and plain “John Jones” 
— a humble, though no doubt a subtle, inquiry into the 
gradations of Society. So I must confess to feeling a 
thrill when I read Mrs. Thistleton’s invitation to dinner 
at the Manor. Thistleton is lord of the Manor — by 
purchase, not by inheritance — and lives in the old 
house, proceeding every day to town, where he has a 
fine practice as a solicitor (Bowes, Thistleton, & Kent) 
in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Mrs. Thistleton and the children 
(there are eight, ranging from Tom, nineteen, to Molly, 
seven, so that the practice needs to be fine), are, how¬ 
ever, quite country folk. Indeed Mrs. Thistleton comes 

[ 3 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

of a county family — in a county situated, I must not 
say judiciously but perhaps luckily, at the other end of 
England from ours; distance prevents cavil in such 
matters, and, practically speaking, Mrs. Thistleton can 
say what she pleases about her parental stock, besides 
exhibiting some highly respectable coat-of-armored 
silver to back her discreet vaunts. Mrs. Thistleton is 
always discreet; indeed she is, in my opinion, a woman 
of considerable talent, and the way in which she dealt 
with the Princess — with the problem of the Princess — 
confirmed the idea I had of her. 

The mention of the Princess brings me back to the 
card of invitation, though I must add, in a minor di¬ 
gression, that the Thistletons are the only people in 
Southam Parva who employ printed cards of invitation 
— the rest of us would not get through a hundred in a 
lifetime, and therefore write notes. The invitation card, 
then, sent to me by Mrs. Thistleton was headed as 
follows:—“To have the honor of meeting Her Royal 
Highness the Princess Vera of Boravia.” Subsequent 
knowledge taught me that the “Royal” was an em¬ 
bellishment of Mrs. Thistleton’s — justifiable for aught 
I know, since the Princess had legitimate pretensions to 
the throne, though her immediate line was not at this 
time in occupation of it — but never employed by the 
Princess herself. However I think Mrs. Thistleton was 
quite right to do the thing handsomely, and I should 
have gone even without the “Royal,” so there was no 
[4] 


MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
real deception. All of us who were invited went: the 
Rector and his wife, the Doctor and his wife, old Mrs. 
Marsfold (the Major-General liad, unfortunately, died 
the year before). Miss Dunlop (of the Elms), and Char¬ 
ley Miles (of the Stock Exchange). 

From what I have said already it will be evident that 
I am no authority, yet I feel safe in declaring that never 
was etiquette more elaborately observed at any party — 
I don’t care where. One of Thistleton’s clients was old 
Lord Ogleferry, and at Lord Ogleferry’s he had once 
met a real princess (I apologize to Princess Vera for 
stumbling, in my insular way, into this invidious dis¬ 
tinction, but, after all, Boravia is not a first-class Power). 
Everything that Lord and Lady Ogleferry had done 
and caused to be done for the real — the British — 
princess, Thistleton and Mrs. Thistleton did and caused 
to be done for Princess Vera; uncomfortable things 
some of them seemed to me to be, but Thistleton, over 
the wine after dinner, told us that they were perfectly 
correct. He also threw light on the Princess’s visit. She 
had come to him as a client, wishing him to recover for 
her, not, as Charley Miles flippantly whispered to me, 
the throne of Boravia by force of arms,, but a consider¬ 
able private fortune at present impounded — or seques¬ 
trated, as Thistleton preferred to oall it — by the de jacto 
monarch of Boravia. “It’s the case of the Orleans Princes 
over again,” Thistleton observed, as he plied a digni¬ 
fied toothpick in such decent obscurity as his napkin 

[5] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

afforded. This parallel with the Orleans Princes im¬ 
pressed as much — without, perhaps, illuminating all of 
us in an equal degree; and we felt that Charley betrayed 

a mercantile attitude of mind when he asked briefly- 

What’s the figure 

“Upward of two million francs,” answered Thistleton. 

I think we all wished we had pencil and paper; the 
Rectof scribbled on the menu — I saw him do it — and 
got the translation approximately accurate. Imagina¬ 
tion was left to play with the “upward.” 

“How much would you take for it — cash ?” asked 
skeptical Charley. 

“The matter is hardly as simple as that,” said Thistle- 
ton, with a slight frown; and he added gravely: “We 
mustn’t stay here any longer. ” 

So we went up-stairs, where Her Royal Highness sat 
in state, and we all had a word with her. She spoke just 
a little English, with a pretty, outlandish accent, but 
was not at all at home in the language. When my turn 
came — and it came last — I ventured to reply to her 
first question in French, which I daresay was a gross 
breach of etiquette. None the less, she was visibly 
relieved; indeed she smiled for the first time and chatted 
away for a few minutes quite merrily. Then Thistleton 
terminated my audience. He used precisely this ex¬ 
pression. “I’m afraid I must terminate your audience,” 
he said. Against any less impressive formula I might 
have rebelled; because I liked the Princess. 

[ 6 ] 



MRS. THISTLE TON’S PRINCESS 

And what was she like ? Very small, very slight, about 
half the size of bouncing Bessie Thistleton, though 
Bessie was not yet seventeen, and the Princess, as I 
suppose, nineteen or twenty. Her face was pale, rather 
thin, a pretty oval in shape; her nose was a trifle turned 
up, she had plentiful black hair and large dark eyes. 
In fact she was a pretty timid little lady, sadly frightened 
of us all, and most of all of Mrs. Thistleton. I don’t 
wonder at that; I’m rather frightened of Mrs. Thistleton 
myself. 

Before I went, I tried to get some more information 
out of my hostess, but mystery reigned. Mrs. Thistleton 
would not tell me how the Princess had come to put her 
affairs in Thistleton’s hands, who had sent her to him, 
or how he was supposed to be going to get two million 
francs out of the de facto King of Boravia. All she said 
was that Her Royal Highness had graciously consented 
to pay them a visit of a very few days. 

“Very few days indeed,” she repeated impressively. 

“Of course,” I nodded with a sagacious air. Probaldy 
Her Royal Highness was due at Windsor the day after 
to-morrow; at any rate, that was the sort of impression 
Mrs. Thistleton gave. 

“I wonder if the money’s genuine!” said Charley 
Miles as we walked home. 

“Is she genuine herself I asked. 

“Well, there’s a girl corresponding to her description, 
anyhow. I went to the club to-day and looked her up. 

[7] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Ought to be Queen, too, if she ’ad ’er rights. (Here he 
was quoting.) Oh yes, she’s all correct. But I wouldn’t 
care to say as much for the fortune. Wonder if old 
Thistleton’s taken it up on commission!” 

“I hope she’ll get it. I liked the little thing, didn’t you, 
Charley ?” 

He cocked his hat rather more on one side and smiled; 
he is a good-natured young man, and no fool in his own 
business. “Yes, I did,” he answered. “And what the 
dickens must she have thought of us ? ” 

I couldn’t reply to that, though I entertained the 
private opinion that I, at least, had made a good im¬ 
pression. 

So much for the introduction of the Princess. And 
now comes, of necessity, a gap in my story; for the next 
day I went to Switzerland on my annual holiday, and 
was absent from Southam Parva for two full months. 
Not seeing the English papers during most of that 
period, I was unable to learn whether Her Royal High¬ 
ness Princess Vera of Boravia had proceeded from the 
Manor House, Southam Parva, to the Castle,^Windsor, 
or anywhere else. 


[ 8 ] 


Chapter Two 

S HE had not, as a fact — and a fact which came 
to my knowledge even before I reached my 
own threshold. I stepped into the train at 
Liverpool Street, fat, brown, and still knickerbockered. 
In one corner of the carriage sat Thistleton, in another 
Charley Miles. 

“Not seen you for a day or two, old chap,” said the 
latter genially. 

I nodded and sat down opposite Thistleton, who 
welcomed my reappearance in a few well-chosen words. 
I reciprocated his civility with inquiries after his family, 

and finally, before taking up my paper, I added- 

“And your distinguished visitor ? The charming 
Princess ? Have you any news of her ?” 

At the same moment I happened to catch Charley’s 
eye. It was cocked at me in a distinctly satirical manner. 
For an instant I feared that the Princess had run off 
with the spoons, or annexed Mrs. Thistleton’s garnets 
(we all knew them) to enrich the Boravian diadem. But 
after the briefest pause — which was a pause, all the 

same — Thistleton*answered- 

“She is still with us, and very well indeed, thank you. ” 

[9] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

He cleared his throat, opened The Globe, and said no 
more. Charley’s eye drew me with an irresistible attrac¬ 
tion ; it was still cocked at me over the top of the Evening 
News. But he made no remark, so I fell back on my 
own organ of opinion, and silence was unbroken until 
we had passed the station immediately before Beeching- 
ton — we alight (as the Company puts it) at Beeching- 
ton for Southam Parva. Then, when there were just 
three minutes left, Thistleton glanced at Charley, saw 
that he was busy with his paper (the “racing” corner 
unless I’m mistaken), leaned forward, and tapped my 
knee with his gold eyeglasses. I started slightly and 
accorded him my attention. There seemed to be a little 
embarrassment in his manner. 

I “By the way, Tregaskis,” he said, “you remember I 
told you that I was engaged on certain — er — delicate 
negotiations on behalf of our guest ?” 

I nodded. “About Her Royal Highness’s private 
fortune ?” 

He nodded. “They involve,” he proceeded, “ap¬ 
proaches to the present King in — er — an amicable 
spirit — more or less amicable. We have thought it well 
that for the present — provisionally and without pre¬ 
judice — Her Highness should employ a designation to 
which her claim is absolutely beyond dispute. By a 
disuse—temporary, perhaps — of her proper style, she 
may smooth certain — er — susceptibilities, and so 
render my task easier and give us a better prospect 

, [ 10 ] 


MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
of success. Our guest now prefers to be known as tlie 
Countess Vera von Friedenburg.” 

I nodded again — it was the only safe thing to do. 
Thistleton said no more, save to express a hope (as he 
got into his wagonette) that they would see me soon at 
the Manor. Charley and I started together to walk the 
long mile from Beechington Station to Southam Parva; 
the cart was to bring my luggage. We had covered some 
half of the distance when Charley pushed his hat well 
over his left ear and ejaculated- 

“Rum go, ain’t it, Treg ? What do you make of 
it?” 

“Her oeing still here, you mean ?” 

“Yes; and the business about her name. For a fort¬ 
night she was Her Royal Highness. Then she was Her 
Highness for three weeks. And for the last three she’s 
been Countess Vera von Friedenburg!” 

“Thistleton gave what appeared to me an admirable 
reason.” 

“I don’t believe he’ll get a sou, not if he offered to 
endorse the check ‘Sarah Smith.’ Is it likely they’d 
part ?” By “they,” I understood him to mean the Court 
of Bora via. 

“I’m sorry for her, then.” 

“So am I, and for old Thistleton too. He’s out of 
pocket, I expect, besides losing his comm. And there 
she is!” 

“The Princess ? ” 


[ 11 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“The Countess, you mean.” His smile was sardonic. 

“Yes, there she is,” I agreed, not very hopefully how¬ 
ever. 

“Rum go!” he added, just as he had begun, and then 
fell to whistling the ditty of the hour. He made only one 
more remark, and that fell from him just as we parted. 

“Ta-ta, Treg,” said he. “Old Thistles (he had an 
objectionable habit of abbreviating names) has got a 
tidy practice; but there are a good many mouths to fill, 
eh? And no comm.! Ta-ta!” 

Was it really as bad as that ? The thought made me 
uncomfortable. Poor girl! The title that had filled our 
mouths would not fill hers. And her descent in rank had 
been remarkable and rapid. Her fall in public esteem 
had, as I soon found, kept pace with it. The word as to 
her style of address had gone round. She was “Countess 
Vera” now. Mrs. Marsfold said: “Poor Countess Vera.” 
Miss Dunlop’s accent was less charitable: “Susan This- 
tleton’s Countess” was her form of expression, and be¬ 
neath it lay an undoubted sneer at the Princess’s pre¬ 
tensions. Bora via, too, was spoken of with scant respect. 
“Really a barbarous place I’m told,” said the Rector. 
“They call their kings kings; but of course—!” He 
shrugged his shoulders, without, however, indicating 
what title the Boravians might, in accordance with 
British standards, appropriate to the person who had 
the doubtful good fortune of ruling over them. In fact 
they — and I don’t know that I am altogether entitled 
[ 12 ] 


MRS, THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
to except myself — all felt a little hot when they re¬ 
membered the high-mightiness of that dinner-party. 

I took advantage of Thistleton’s kind intimation and 
called on his wife. It was a fine autumn afternoon, and 
while we sat in the drawing-room and talked, I looked 
through the open windows on to the lawn. Countess 
Vera sat there, surrounded by the four youngest Thistle- 
ton children — Gladys, Myra, Molly, and the boy 
Evanstone (Mrs. Thistleton was a Miss Evanstone). 
The Countess and the children all held books in their 
hands, and snatches of the French tongue fell on my ear 
from time to time. 

“It’s really very perplexing,” said Mrs. Thistleton, 
“and it’s diflScult to do the right thing. I’m sure you 
credit us with wanting to do the right thing, Mr. Treg- 
askis ?” 

“I’m sure you’d do the right and the kind thing.” 

“The money she brought over is quite exhausted. Mr. 
Thistleton has spent a considerable sum in getting up 
her case and presenting it to the Boravian Court. His 
efforts meet with no attention — indeed with absolute 
contempt.” 

“They’re not afraid of her ?” 

“Not in the least. And here she is — literally without 
a farthing! And hardly a gown to her back — at least, 
hardly one suitable for —” She broke off, ending: “But 
what do you know about gowns ?” 

“Rather a remarkable situation for a princess!” 

[13] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

she would let us beg for her, even! The Govern¬ 
ment might do something. But she won’t hear of it. 
Then she says she’ll go. Where to ? What can she do ? 
If she won’t beg, she’d starve. We can’t let her starve, 
can we ? But times aren’t good, and — Oh, well, I must 
give you some tea. Would you mind ringing ?” 

I obeyed. Merry laughs came from the children on 
the lawn. 

“The kids seem to like her, ” said I, for want of better 
consolation. 

“She’s very nice to them. She’s helping them with 
their French. ” She caught me looking at her and blushed 
a little. I had not seen Mrs. Thistleton blush before. 
Suddenly the plan came before my eyes. There was no 
need to blush for it; it seemed to me rather great — 
rather great, perhaps, on both sides, but greater on 
Mrs. Thistleton’s. “It gives her a sense of — of doing 
something in return, I suppose,” Mrs. Thistleton went 
on. 

The maid brought in tea. 

“Is nursery tea ready ?” Mrs. Thistleton asked. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Then send the children up-stairs and tell the 
Countess that tea is here. ” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Soon the Countess came — as small, as slight, as dark 
as ever, even more timid. I rose as she entered; she 
bowed nervously, and, going to the table, busied herself 

[14] 


MRS. THISTLE TON’S PRINCESS 
with making the tea. Mrs. Thistleton lay back in her 
arm-chair 

“Sit down, Mr. Tregaskis,” she said. “You like mak¬ 
ing tea for us, don’t you. Countess ?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Thistleton, thank you,” said Countess 
Vera von Friedenburg. 

But I didn’t sit down — I couldn’t do it. I leaned 
against the table and looked an ass all the time she 
made tea. 


[ 15 ] 


Chapter Three 

T he next chapter, or division, or what you will, 
of this small history may be very short. I write 
it with two objects, which seem to me to justify 
its appearance, in spite of its fragmentary charac¬ 
ter. In the first place, it serves to exhibit the final 
stage of the descent of the Princess — the logical con¬ 
clusion of the process which was begun when Thistleton 
dropped “Royal” from between “Her” and “Highness” 
in the train from Liverpool Street to Beechington. In 
the second place, it exhibits Mrs. Thistleton’s good 
sense and fine feeling for the suitability of things. You 
couldn’t have princesses — nay, nor countesses — about 
the house in that sort of position. It would have been 
absurd. 

So here it is. I seldom give even small dinner-parties; 
such gatherings annoy my cook. But about a month 
after my return, I got leave to have four or five friends, 
and I bade to my board the Rector and his wife and 
Mr. and Mrs. Thistleton. If for no other reason than 
to “balance,” I said in my note to Mrs. Thistleton that 
I should be exceedingly pleased if Countess Vera von 
Friedenburg would do me the honor of accompanying 
[ 16 ] 


MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
them. Perhaps that was a mistake in taste. I meant no 
harm, and I don’t think that Mrs. Thistleton intended 
to rebuke me; though she did, I imagine, mean to convey 
to me a necessary intimation. 

“Dear Mr. Tregaskis,” she wrote, “ Mr. Thistleton 
and I are delighted to accept your very kind invitation, 
and we shall be charmed, as always, to meet our dear 
Rector and Mrs. Carr. I am told to thank you very 
sincerely for your kind invitation to our young friend, 
but Fraulein Friedenburg agrees with me in thinking 
that during my absence she had better stay with the 
children. Yours very sincerely, 

“Susan Thistleton.” 

Fraulein Friedenburg! Even her particle — her last 
particle — of nobility gone! Fraulein Friedenburg! Her 
Royal Highness —! Let us forget — let us and all 
Southam Parva forget! 

It was not unkind of Mrs. Thistleton. It was right 
and suitable. Who should not come out to dinner, but 
stay and mind the children ? Who save Fraulein — 
Fraulein Friedenburg ? It would have been a ludicrous 
position for Her Royal Highness Princess Vera of 
Boravia. Leave it to Fraulein Friedenburg! 

So, as Fraulein Friedenburg, she passed into our 
ordinary lives, and out of our ordinary thoughts, as it 
is the way with things when they become familiar. 

[17] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Mrs. Thistleton’s courage and talent had saved the 
situation — and her own face. The Princess was for¬ 
gotten, and the Thistletons’ nursery governess little 
heeded. Who does heed a nurswy governess much ? 

But one night, as I turned over the atlas looking for 
something else, I came on the map of Boravia and saw 
the city of Friedenburg set astride the great river, dom¬ 
inating the kingdom, a sentinel at the outposts of West¬ 
ern Europe. If Divine Right were not out of fashion, 
the key of that citadel should have been in the hand 
which ruled exercise-books for the Thistleton children. 
For a few moments after that I went on thinking about 
the nursery governess. 


1 


[ 18 ] 


Chapter Four 

S O Fraulein — she soon came to be called just 
“Fraulein”—was not at my dinner-party; but 
two or three weeks later I had a little talk 
with her. I went up to the Manor one afternoon in 
October, seeking a game of croquet with Bessie Thistle- 
ton — such are our mild delights at Southam Parva — 
but found the whole family gone off to a Primrose 
League bazaar at Beechington. Only Fraulein was at 
home, said the parlor-maid; and Fraulein was visible 
in the garden, sitting under a tree, turning over the 
leaves of a big book. I used the privilege of a friend of 
the house, strolled out on to the lawn, and raised my 
hat to the — I mean to Fraulein. She smiled brightly 
and beckoned to me to come and sit by her; her words 
were beyond reproach, but her gestures were sometimes 
obstinately un-Frauleinish, if I may so express myself. I 
sat down in the other deck-chair and said that it was 
very fine for so late in the year. 

She made no reply and, raising my eyes to her face, I 
found her looking at me with an unmistakable gleam of 
amusement. 

“Do you think this very funny ?” she asked. 

[19] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“I think it’s deplorable,” I answered promptly. 

“It’s very simple. I owe Mr. Thistleton two hundred 
pounds. I do this till I have worked it oflP. ” 

“How many years ?” 

“Several, monsieur.” 

“And after that ? ” 

“The children will grow up. ” 

“Yes. And then ?” 

“Mrs. Thistleton will give Fraulein Friedenburg a 
good character.” 

“Meanwhile you work for nothing ?” 

“No. For clothes, for food, to pay my debt.” 

“And how do you like it ?” 

That question of mine, which sounds brutal, was 
inspired and, as I still believe, excused by the satirical 
amusement in her eyes; our previous meetings had 
shown me no such expression. Her answer to the 
question had its irony too. She turned over a dozen 
pages of the big book and came on a picture. She held 
the book out to me, saying- 

“That’s my home.” 

I looked at the picture of her home, the great grim 
castle towering aloft on the river bank. A few centuries 
ago the Turks had fallen back beaten from before these 
giant walls. Then I glanced round Mrs. Thistleton’s 
gentle trim old garden. 

“I think you’ve answered my question,” I said. 

She closed the book, with a shrug of her thin little 

[ 20 ] 


MRS. TIIISTLETON’S IMIINCESS 
shoulders, and sat silent for a moment. The oval of 
her face was certainly beautiful, and the thick masses 
of her hair were dark as night, or the inside of a dungeon 
in her castle of Eriedenburg. (I liked to think of her 
having dungeons, though I really don’t know whether 
she had.) 

“And is it forever ?” I asked. 

She leaned over toward me and whispered: “They 
know where I am.” An intense excitement seemed to 
be fighting against the calm she imposed on herself; 
but it lasted only a moment. The next instant she fell 
back in her chair with a sigh of dejection; a listless 
despair spread over her face; the satirical gleam illumin¬ 
ated no more the depths of her eyes. The veil had fallen 
over the Princess again. Only Fraulein sat beside me. 

Then I made a fool of myself. 

“Are there no men in Bora via ?” I asked in a low 
voice. 

This at Southam Parva, in the twentieth century, 
and to the governess! Moreover, from me, who have 
always been an advanced Liberal in politics, and hold 
that the Boravians arc at entire liberty to change the 
line of succession, or to set up a republic if they be so 
disposed ! None the less, in the Thistletons’ garden that 
afternoon, I did ask Fraulein whether there were men 
in Boravia. 

She answered the question in the words she had used 
before. 

[ 21 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Tliey know where I am,” she said, but now languidly 
with half-closed eyes. 

That I might be saved from further folly, from offer¬ 
ing my strong right arm and all my worldly goods (I 
was at the moment overdrawn at the bank) as a contri¬ 
bution toward a Legitimist crusade in Boravia — For¬ 
tune sent interruption. The family came back from the 
bazaar, and most of them trooped into the garden. 
Charley Miles was with them, having joined the party at 
theon his way back from town. As they all came up 
Fraulein put the big book — with its picture of her home 
— behind her back; I rose and walked forward to greet 
Mrs. Thistleton. In an instant Charley, passing me 
with a careless ‘^Hallo, Treg!” had seated himself by 
Fraulein and begun to talk to her with great vivacity 
and every appearance of pleasure — indeed of admira¬ 
tion. 

I joined Mrs. Thistleton — and Bessie, who stood 
beside her mother. Bessie was frowning; that frown 
was to me the first announcement of a new situation. 
Bessie was grown up now, or so held herself, and she 
and Charley were great friends. Charley was doing 
remarkably on the Stock Exchange, making his three 
or four thousand a year; I remembered that Thistleton 
had thrown out a conjecture to that effect in conversa¬ 
tion with me once. As the father of a family of eight, 
Thistleton could not neglect such a circumstance. And 
Charley was a good-looking fellow. The frown on Miss 
[ 22 ] 


MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
Bessie’s brow set all this train of thought moving in my 
mind. The fact that, the next moment, Miss Bessie 
swung round and marched off into the house served to 
accelerate its progress. 

Mrs. Thistleton cast a glance at the couple under the 
tree — Charley Miles and Fraulein — and then sug¬ 
gested that I should go with her and see the chrysan¬ 
themums. We went to see the chrysanthemums accord¬ 
ingly, but I think we were both too preoccupied to 
appreciate them properly. 

“It’s a very difficult position in some ways,” said Mrs. 
Thistleton suddenly. 

It was so difficult as to be almost impossible. I paid 
my compliment with absolute sincerity. “You’ve over¬ 
come the difficulties wonderfully,” I remarked. “I never 
admired your tact more. Nobody thinks of her at all 
now, except just as Fraulein.” 

“I have been anxious to do the right thing, and she 
has improved the children’s French.” She did not add 
that the liquidation of Thistleton’s bill by services 
rendered was a further benefit. We cannot be expected 
always to remember every aspect of our conduct. 

• “But it is difficult,” Mr^. Thistleton went on. “And 
tJie worst of it is that Bessie and she aren’t very con¬ 
genial. With an ordinary governess — Well, the only 
thing is to treat her like one, isn’t it ?” 

“Does she object ?” 

“Oh no, never. But I can’t quite make her out. After 
[ 23 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

all, she’s not English, you see, and one can’t be sure of 
her moral influence. I sometimes think I must make a 
change. Oh, I shouldn’t do anything unkind. I should 
ask her to stay till she was suited, and, of course, do 
all I could to recommend her. But Bessie doesn’t like 
her, I’m sorry to say. ” 

By this time we had walked past all the chrysanthe¬ 
mums twice, and I said that it was time for me to go. 
Mrs. Thistleton gave me her hand. 

“You don’t think me unkind ?” 

“Honestly, I think you have been kind all through, 
and I don’t think you’ll be unkind now. The situation 
is so very- 

“Diflicult ? Yes,” she sighed. 

I had been going to say “absurd,” but I accepted 
“difficult.” I would have accepted anything, because 
I wanted to end the conversation and get away. I was 
surfeited with incongruities — Mrs. Thistleton, Bessie, 
Charley Miles, and, above all, Fraulein — set in contrast 
with the picture in the big book — with the castle of 
Friedenburg frowning above the great river, waiting for 
its mistress. Princess Vera; the mistress who came not 
because — I couldn’t get away from my own folly — 
because there were no men in Bora via! “Absurd” was 
the right word, however. 


[ 24 ] 



Chapter Five 

T he next few weeks developed the situation 
along the lines I had foreseen, but endowed 
it with a new wealth of irony, so that it be¬ 
came harder than ever to say whether we were dealing 
with tragedy or with farce. The women of the village 
took arms against Fraulein. Mrs. Marsfold, Miss Dun¬ 
lop (of the Elms), even the Rector’s gentle wife, became 
partizans of Bessie Thistleton and demanded the expul¬ 
sion of Fraulein. Only Mrs. Thistleton herself still 
resisted, still sought after the kind thing, still tried to 
reconcile the interests of her family with the duty she 
had undertaken toward the stranger within her gates. 
But even she grew weaker. They were all against her, 
and Bessie had the preponderating word with her father 
now. In fine, there was every prospect that, even as the 
Princess Vera was banished from Boravia, so Fraulein 
Friedenburg would be expelled from Southam Parva. 

And why ? She had designs on Charley Miles! That 
was the accusation; and it was also, and immediately, 
the verdict. She wanted to catch Charley Miles — and 
that three or four thousand a year which, by plausible 
conjecture, he was making on the Stock Exchange! 
[ 25 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

The Princess was now utterly forgotten ^ she might 
never have existed. There was only the designing govern¬ 
ess, forgetful of her duty and her station, flying at 
game too high for her, at the most eligible match in the 
village, at the suitor (the destined suitor) of her em¬ 
ployer’s daughter, at prosperous Charley Miles of the 
Stock Exchange! The human mind is highly adaptable, 
and the relativity of things is great. These two con¬ 
clusions were strongly impressed on my mind by the 
history of Fraulein Friedenburg’s sojourn in the village 
of Southam Parva. 

Charley had the instincts of a gentleman and was 
furious with “the old cats,’’ as he called the ladies I 
have named, with a warmth which for my part I And it 
easy to pardon. Yet his mind was as their minds; he 
was no whit less deeply and firmly rooted in present 
facts. He may have been a little afraid of Bessie, perhaps 
in a very little committed to her by previous attentions. 
But that was not the main difficulty. Thi^t he was in 
love with Fraulein I believed then and believe now; 
indeed he came very near to admitting the fact to me 
on more than one occasion. But he was a young man of 
social ambitions, and the Thistletons stood high among 
us. (I began by admitting that we do not dwell on the 
highest peaks.) Mr. Thistleton’s daughter was one 
thing, Mr. Thistleton’s governess another. That was 
Charley’s point of view, so that he wrestled with erring 
inclination and overthrew it. He did not offer marriage 


MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
to Fraulein Friedenburg. He contented himself with 
denouncing the attempt to banish her, for which, after 
all, his own conduct was primarily responsible. But I 
found no time to blame him; he filled me with a wonder 
which became no less overwhelming because, in regard 
to present facts, it was in a large measure unreasonable. 
In truth I couldn’t stand firm on present facts. The 
walls, the towers, the dungeons of Friedenburg, and the 
broad river running down below — these things would 
not leave the visions of my mind. They stood in ob¬ 
stinate contrast to Charley Miles and three or four thous¬ 
and on the Stock Exchange. 

One evening — it was a Monday, as I remember — 
Charley came to see me after dinner, and brought with 
him a copy of The Morning Post, an excellent paper, 
but one which, owing to the political convictions to 
which I have already referred in connection with my 
feelings about the lack of men in Boravia, I do no take 
in. He pointed to a spot in the advertisement columns, 
and, without removing his hat from his head or his 
cigar from his mouth, sank into my arm-chair. 

“Mrs. Thistles has paid for six insertions, Treg,” he 
said. 

I read the first “insertion.” 

“A lady strongly recommends her German nursery 
governess. Good English. Fluent French. Music. Fond 
of children. Salary very moderate. A good home principal 
[ 27 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

object. Well-connected.— Mrs. T., The Manor House, 
Southam Parva.” 

Well-connected! I looked over to Charley with some 
sort of a smile. “The good English is, of course, all 
right I said. 

“Isn’t it an infernal shame ?” he broke out. “She 
won’t stay a week after that!” 

“It may bring an engagement,” said I. 

“Look here, do you think it’s my fault ?” 

“I’m glad she says Fraulein is well-connected.” 

“Do you think it’s my fault ? I — I’ve tried to play 
square — by her as well as by myself. ” 

“I don’t think we need discuss the Princess.” 

“Hallo, Treg!” 

“Good heavens! — I — I beg pardon! I mean — 
why need we talk about Fraulein’s affairs ?” 

“I was talking about mine.” 

“I see no connection.” 

He was not angry with me, though (as will have been 
seen) I had lost my temper hopelessly and disastrously. 
He got up and stood in front of the fire. 

“I hadn’t the pluck, Treg, my boy,” he said. His 
voice sounded rather dreary, but I had no leisure to 
pity him. 

“Good heavens, do you suppose she’d have looked 
at you ?” I cried. “Remember who she is!” 

“That’s all very well, but facts are facts, ” said Charley 

[ 28 ] 


MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
Miles. “I didn’t mean to make trouble, Treg, old boy. 
On my honor, I didn’t.” He made a long pause. “I hope 
I shall be asking you to congratulate me soon, Treg,” 
he went on. 

“Ask me in public, and I’ll do it. ” 

“That’s just being vicious,” he complained, and with 
entire justice. “Bessie’s a first-rate girl.” 

“I’m very sorry, Charley. So she is. She’ll suit you 
a mile better than — than Fraulein.” 

He brightened up. “I’m awfully glad you do think 
me right in the end,” he said. “But I’m a bit sorry for 
Fraulein. She’d have had to go soon, anyhow — when 
the children got a bit older. She’ll get a berth, I expect. ” 

“No doubt,” said I. “And I’ll congratulate you even 
in private, Charley.” 

“You’re a decent old chap, but you’re got a queer 
temper. I don’t above half understand you, Treg.” He 
hesitated a little. “I say, you might go and have a talk 
with Fraulein some day. She likes you, you know.” 

“Does she?” The eager words leaped from my lips 
before I oould stop them. 

“Rather! Will you go ?” 

“Yes. I’ll have a talk with Fraulein.” 

“Before she goes ?” 

“She’ll go soon ?” 

“I think so.” 

“Yes, before she goes, Charley.” 

With that, or, rather, after a little idle talk which 
[ 29 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

added nothing to that, he left me — left me wondering 
still. He was sorry for Fraulein, and not only because 
she must go forth into the world; also because she had 
not been invited to become Mrs. Charley Miles! He 
conceived that he had made a conquest, and he didn’t 
value it! His mistake of fact was great, but it shrank to 
nothing before the immensity of his blunder in estima¬ 
tion. I could account for it only in one way — a way so 
pleasing to my own vanity that I adopted it forthwith. 
And I’m not sure I was wrong. The veil had not been 
lifted for him, and he had no eyes to see through it. For 
me it had been raised once, and henceforth eternally 
hung transparent. 

“That’s my home.” She had looked in that moment 
as if no other place could be. 

Now, however, she was advertising for a situation, 
and I speculated as to how much of the truth Mrs. 
Thistleton would deem it wise to employ in justifying 
that sublime “Well-connected.” 


[ 30 ] 


Chapter Six 

I SAW her the next day but one — on the morn¬ 
ing when the third “insertion” appeared in The 
Morning Post. Bessie Thistleton had told me, 
with obvious annoyance, that there had been no replies 
yet. “Governesses are really a drug, unless they have a 
degree, in these days,” she had said. Where is she ? ' 
Oh, somewhere in the garden, I think, Mr. Tregaskis.” 

So I went into the garden and found her again under 
the tree. But her big book was not with her now; she 
was sitting idle, looking straight ahead of her, with 
pondering and, perhaps, fear in her great dark eyes. 
She gave me her hand to shake. I kissed it. 

“Nobody will kiss my hand in my next place, ” she said. 
“Why in heaven do you do it ?” 

“I can’t beg; and if I did, I don’t think I should 
receive.” She leaned forward, resting her hand on the 
arm of the chair. “We don’t know who I’m to be,” she 
went on, smiling. “Nobody but Mrs. Thistleton could 
carry it off if I confessed to being myself! Who shall I 
be, Mr. Tregaskis ?” 

I made no answer, and she gave a little laugh. 

“You like to go ?” I asked. 

[ 31 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“No. I’m frightened. And suppose there's another 
Mr. Miles?” 

“The infernal idiot!” 

“He’s wise. Only — I’m amused. They’re right to 
send me away, though. I’m such an absurdity.” 

“Yes,” I assented mournfully. “I’m afraid you are.” 

She leaned nearer still to me, half whispering in her 
talk. “I should never have liked him, but yet it hardly 
seemed strange that he should think of it. I’m forgetting 
myself, I think. In my next place I wonder if I shall 
remember at all!” 

“You have your book and the picture.” 

“Yes, but they seem dim now. I suppose it would be 
best to forget, as everybody else does. ‘ 

“Not everybody,” I said very low. 

“No, you don’t forget. I’ve noticed that. It’s foolish, but 
I like some one to remember. Suppose you forgot too!” 

One of her rare smiles lit up her face. But I did not 
tell her what would happen if I forgot too. I knew very 
well in my own mind, though. I was not trammeled by 
previous attentions, nor was I making three or four 
thousand a year. 

“You’ll tell me when you go — and where ?” I asked. 

“Yes, if you like to know.” 

“And will ‘ they’ know too ?” 

She looked at me with searching eyes. “Are you 
laughing?” she asked, and it seemed to me that there 
was a break in her voice. 


[ 32 ] 


MRS. THISTLE TON’S PRINCESS 

“God forbid, madam!” said I. 

“Ah, but I think you should be. How the present can 
make the past ridiculous!” 

“Neither the past ridiculous nor the future impos¬ 
sible,” I said. 

She laid her hand on my arm for a moment with a 
gentle pressure. 

“We had an Order at home called The Knights of 
Faith. Shall I send you the Cross some day — in that 
impossible future?” 

“No. Send me your big book, with the picture of 
the great castle and the broad river flowing by its base.” 

She looked at me a moment, flushed but the slightest, 
and answered: “Yes.” Then, as I remember, we sat 
silent for a while. 

That silence was waste of time, as it proved. For, 
before it ended, Mrs. Thistleton came bounding (really 
the expression is excusable in view of her unrestrained 
elation) out of the house, holding a letter in her hand. 

“Fraulein, an answer!” she cried. 

We both rose, and she came up to us. 

“And it sounds most suitable. I do hope you don’t 
mind London — though really it doesn’t do to be fussy. 
A Mrs. Perkyns, on Maida Hill — nice and high! Only 
two little children, and she offers — Oh, well, we can 
talk about the salary presently.” 

That last remark constituted an evident hint to me. 
I grasped my hat and gave my hand to Mrs. Thistleton. 

[ 33 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

^^Good news, isn’t it ?” said she. “And Mrs. Perkyns 
says she has such confidence in me — it appears she 
knew my sister Mary at Cheltenham — that she waives 
any other references. Isn’t that convenient ?” 

“Very,” I agreed. 

“You’re to go the day after to-morrow if you can be 
ready. Can you ?” asked Mrs. Thistleton. 

“I can be ready,” Fraulein said. 

“In the morning, Mrs. Perkyns suggested.” 

“I can be ready in the morning.” Then she turned to 
me. “This is good-by, then, I’m afraid, Mr. Tregaskis.” 

“I shall come and see you off,” said I, taking her 
hand. 

Mrs. Thistleton raised her brows for a moment, but 
her words were gracious. 

“We shall all be down to wish her a good journey 
and a happy home.” 

I made up my mind to say my farewell at the station 
— and I took my leave. As I walked out of the front 
gate I met Thistleton coming from the station. I took 
upon myself to tell him the news. 

“Good,” said Thistleton. “It ends what was always 
a false, and has become an impossible, situation.” 

How about poor Mrs. Perkyns, then ? But I did not 
put that point to him. She was forewarned by that 
“Well-connected.” As I walked home I pictured Thistle¬ 
ton putting up a board before his residence: “Princesses, 
beware! ” 


[ 34 ] 


Chapter Seven 

I T was no use telling me — as the Rector had told 
me more than once — that the same sort of thing 
had happened before in history, that a French 
marquis of the old regime was at least as good as a 
Boravian princess, and that if the one had taught 
dancing as an emigre the other might teach French verbs 
in her banishment. The consideration was no doubt 
just, and even assuaged to some degree the absurdity 
of the situation — since absurd things that have hap¬ 
pened before seem rather less absurd somehow — but it 
did not console my feelings, nor reconcile my imagina¬ 
tion to Mrs. Perkyns of Maida Hill, “nice and high,” 
though Maida Hill might be. On the morning of Frau- 
lein’s departure I rose out of temper with the world. 

Then I opened the morning paper, and there it was! 
In a moment it seemed neither strange nor unexpected. 
It was bound to be there some morning. It chanced to 
be there this morning by happy fortune, because this 
was the last morning in which I could help, the last 
morning when I could see her eyes. But it was glorious. 
I am afraid it sent me half mad; yet I was very practical. 
In a minute I had made up my mind what she would 
[ 35 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

want to do and what I could do. In another five minutes 
I was on my bicycle, “scorching” to Beechington with 
that paper in one pocket, and a check on the local branch 
of the London and County Bank in the other. And 
humming in my ears was “Rising in Boravia!” “Ru¬ 
mored Abdication of the King!” “An Appeal to the 
Pretender!” Then, in smaller print: “Something about 
Princess Vera of Friedenburg.” 

I hoped she would get away before the Thistletons 
knew! Very likely she would, for by now Thistleton 
was in the train for town, and he picked up his Times 
at the station; the family waited for it till the evening. 

From the bank I raced to the station, and reached it 
ten minutes before the train was due to leave Beeching¬ 
ton. There she was, sitting on a bench, all alone. She 
was dressed in plain black and looked very small and 
forlorn. She seemed deep in thought, and she did not 
see me till I was close to her. Then she looked up with 
a start. I suppose she read my face, for she smiled, held 
out her hand, and said- 

“Yes, I had a telegram late last night.” 

“You’ve told them ?” I jerked my thumb in the direc¬ 
tion of the Manor. 

“No,” she said rather brusquely. 

“You’re going, of course ?” 

“To Mrs. Perkyns’,” she answered, smiling still. 
“What else can I do ?” 

“Wire them that you’re starting for Vienna, and that 
[ 36 ] 



MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
they must communicate with you there. Ah, there are 
men in Boravia! ” 

“And Mrs. Perkyns ? I should never get another 
character!” 

“You'll go, surely ? It might make all the difference. 
Let them see you, let them see you!” 

She shook her head, giving at the same time a short 
nervous laugh. I sat down by her. Her purse lay in her 
lap. I took it up; the Princess made no movement; her 
eyes were fixed on mine. I opened the purse and slipped 
in the notes I had procured at the bank. Her eyes did 
not forbid me. I snapped the purse to and laid it down 
again. 

“I had a third-class to London, and eight shillings 
and threepence,” she said. 

“You’ll go now ?” 

“Yes,” she whispered, rising to her feet. 

We stood side by side now, waiting for the train. It 
was very hard to speak. Presently she passed her hand 
through my arm and let it rest there. She said no more 
about the money, which I was glad of. Not that I was 
thinking much of that. I was still rather mad, and my 
thoughts were full of one insane idea; it was — though I 
am ashamed to write it — that just as the train was 
starting, at the last moment, at the moment of her going, 
she might say: “Come with me.” 

“Did it surprise you ?” I said at last, breaking the 
silence at the cost of asking a very stupid question. 
[ 37 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“I had given up all hope. Yet somehow I wasn’t very 
surprised. You were ?” 

“No. I had always believed in it.” 

“Not at first ?” 

“No; of late.” 

She looked away from me now, but I saw her lips 
curve in a reluctant little smile. I laughed. 

“I don’t think my ideas about it had any particular 
relation to external facts,” I confessed. “I had become 
a Legitimist, and Legitimists are always allowed to 
dream.” 

She gave my arm a gentle pat and then drew her hand 
gently away. 

“If it all comes to nothing, I shall have one friend 
still,” she said. 

“And one faithful, hopeful adherent. And there’s your 
train.” 

When I put her in the carriage, my madness came 
back to me. I actually watched her eyes as though to 
see the invitation I waited for take its birth there. Of 
course I saw no such thing. But I seemed to see a great 
friendliness for me. At the last, when I had pressed her 
hand and then shut the door, I whispered- 

“Are you afraid ?” 

She smiled. “No. Boravia isn’t Southam Parva. I am 
not afraid!” 

Then — well, she went away. 

[ 38 ] 



Chapter Eight 


M rs. THISTLETON is great. I said so before, 
and I remain firmly of that opinion. The last 
time I called at the Manor, I found her in 
the drawing-room with Molly, the youngest daughter, a 
pretty and intelligent child. After some conversation, 

Mrs. Thistleton said to me- 

“A little while ago I had an idea, which my husband 
thought so graceful that he insisted on carrying it out. 
I wonder if you’ll like it! I should really like to show it 
to you.” 

I expressed a polite interest and a proper desire to see 
it, whatever it was. 

‘‘Then I’ll take you up-stairs, said she, rising with a 
gracious smile. 

Up-stairs we went, accompanied by Molly, who is 
rather a friend of mine and who was hanging on to my 
arm. Reaching the first floor, we turned to the left, 
and Mrs. Thistleton ushered me into an exceedingly 
pleasant and handsome bedroom, with a delightful view 
of the garden. Not conceiving that I could be privileged 
to view Mrs. Thistleton’s own chamber, I concluded 
that this desirable apartment must be the best or princi¬ 
pal guest-room of the house. 

[ 39 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

“There!” said Mrs. Thistleton, pointing with hei 
finger toward the mantelpiece. 

Advancing in that direction, I perceived, affixed to 
the wall over the mantelpiece, a small gilt frame, ela¬ 
borately wrought and ornamented with a Royal 
Crown. Inclosed in the frame, and protected by glass, 
was a square of parchment, illuminated in blue and gold 
letters. I read the inscription: 

This Room ivas Occupied by Her Majesty the Queen of 
Boravia on the Occasion of Her Visit to the Manor 
House, Southam Parva, 

9nth of June, 1902. 

“It’s a very pretty idea, indeed! I congratulate you on 
it, Mrs. Thistleton,” said I. 

“I do like it; and ‘the Queen’s Room’ sounds such a 
nice name for it.” 

“Charming!” I declared. 

“Why didn’t you put one in the little room up-stairs 
too — the room she slept in all the last part of the time, 
mama ?” asked Molly. 

Well, well, children will make these mistakes. I think 
it was very creditable to Mrs. Thistleton that she merely 
told Molly to think before she spoke, in which case 
(Mrs. Thistleton intimated) she would not ask such a 
large number of foolish questions. 

So Mrs. Thistleton has a very pleasant memento of 
[40] 


MRS. THISTLETON’S PRINCESS 
her Princess. I have one of her too — a big book, with 
a picture of the great castle and the broad river flowing 
below. And in the beginning of the book is written: 
‘‘To him who did not forget — Vera.” 

The description still applies. 


[ 41 ] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 


T he affair had three obvious results: the marriage 
of Prince Julian, Sir Henry Shum’s baronetcy, 
and the complete renovation of Lady Craigen- 
noch’s town house. Its other effects, if any, were more 
obscure. 

By accident of birth and of political events Prince 
Julian was a Pretender, one of several gentlemen who 
occupied that position in regard to the throne of an im¬ 
portant European country: by a necessity of their 
natures Messrs. Shum & Byers were financiers: thanks 
to a fall in rents and a taste for speculation Lady Craig- 
ennoch was hard put to it for money and had become 
a good friend and ally of Mr. Shum; sometimes he al¬ 
lowed her to put a finger into one of his pies and draw 
out a little plum for herself. Byers, hearing one day of 
his partner’s acquaintance with Lady Craigennoch, 
observed, “ She might introduce us to Prince Julian. ” 
Shum asked no questions, but obeyed; that was the way 
to be comfortable and to grow rich if you were Mr. 
Byers’ partner. The introduction was duly effected; the 
Prince wondered vaguely, almost ruefully, what these 
[42] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 
men expected to get out of him. Byers asked himself 
quite as dolefully whether anything could be made out 
of an indolent, artistic, lazy young man like the Prince; 
Pretenders such as he served only to buttress existing 
Governments. 

“Yes,” agreed Shum. “Besides, he’s entangled with 
that woman.” 

“ Is there a woman ? ” asked Byers. “ I should like 
to know her. ” 

So, on his second visit to Palace Gate, Mr. Byers was 
introduced to the lady who was an inmate in Prince 
Julian’s house, but was not received in society. Lady 
Craigennoch however, opining, justly enough, that since 
she had no girls she might know whom she pleased, 
had called on the lady and was on friendly terms with 
her. The lady was named Mrs. Rivers, and was under¬ 
stood to be a widow. “And surely one needn’t ask 
for his death certificate! ” pleaded Lady Craigennoch. 
Byers, as he took tea in Mrs. Rivers’ boudoir, was quite 
of the same mind. He nursed his square chin in his lean 
hand, and regarded his hostess with marked attention. 
She was handsome; that fact concerned Byers very little; 
she was also magnificently self-confident; this trait 
roused his interest in a moment. He came to see her 
more than once again; for now an idea had begun to 
shape itself in his brain. He mentioned it to nobody 
least of all to Mrs. Rivers. But one day she said to him, 
with the careless contempt that he admired, 

[ 43 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“ If I had all your money, I should do something with 
it.” 

“Don’t I ?” he asked, half-liking, half-resenting her 
manner. 

“ Oh, you make more money with it, I suppose. ” 

She paused for a moment, and then, leaning forward, 
began to discuss European politics, with especial refer¬ 
ence to the condition of affairs in Prince Julian’s country. 
Byers listened in silence; she told him much that he 
knew, a few things which had escaped him. She told 
him also one thing which he did not believe — that 
Prince Julian’s indolent airs covered a character of rare 
resolution and tenacity. She repeated this twice, there¬ 
by betraying that she was not sure her first statement 
had carried conviction. Then she showed that the exist¬ 
ing Government in the Prince’s country was weak, 
divided, unpopular, and poor; and then she ran over 
the list of rival Pretenders and proved how deficient all 
of them were in the qualities necessary to gain or keep 
a throne. At this point she stopped, and asked Mr. 
Byers to take a second cup of tea. He looked at her 
with interest and amusement in his shrewd eyes; she 
had all the genius, the native power, with none of the 
training, none of the knowledge of men. He read her 
so easily; but there was a good deal to read. In one point, 
however, he read her wrongly; almost the only mis¬ 
takes he made were due to forgetting the possible ex¬ 
istence of unselfish emotion. 

[44] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 
Prince Julian had plenty of imagination; without 
any difficulty he imagined himself regaining his an¬ 
cestral throne, sitting on it in majesty, and establishing 
it in power. This vision Mrs. Rivers called up before 
his receptive mind by detailing her conversation with 
Mr. Byers. “You want nothing but money to do it,” 
she said. And Byers had money in great heaps; Shum 
had it too, and Shum was for present purposes Byers; 
so were a number of other persons, all with money. 
“ I believe the people are devoted to me in their hearts, ” 
said Prince Julian; then he caught Mrs. Rivers by both 
her hands and cried, “ And then you shall be my Queen! ” 
“Indeed I won’t,” said she; and she added almost 
fiercely, “ Why do you bring that up again now ? It 
would spoil it all.” For, contrary to what the world 
thought. Prince Julian had offered several times to 
marry the lady who was not received nor visited (except, 
of course, by Lady Craigennoch). Stranger still, this 
marriage was the thing which the Prince desired above 
all things, for, failing it, he feared that some day (owing 
to a conscience and other considerations) Mrs. Rivers 
would leave him, and he really did not know what he 
should do then. When he imagined himself on his 
ancestral throne, Mrs. Rivers was always very near at 
hand; whether actually on the throne beside him or 
just behind it was a point which he was prone to shirk; 
at any cost, though, she must be very near. 

As time went on there were many meetings at Palace 
[ 45 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Gate; the Prince, Mr. Shum, and Lady Craigennoch 
were present sometimes; Mrs. Rivers and Byers were 
never wanting. The Prince’s imagination was im¬ 
mensely stimulated in those days; Lady Craigennoch’s 
love for a speculation was splendidly indulged; Mr. 
Shum’s cautious disposition received terrible shocks. 
Mrs. Rivers discussed European politics, the attitude of 
the Church, and the secret quarrels of the Cabinet in 
Prince Julian’s country; and Byers silently gathered 
together all the money of his own and other people’s on 
which he could lay hands. He was meditating a great 
cou'p; and just now and then he felt a queer touch of 
remorse when he reflected that his cou'p was so very 
different from the coup to which Mrs. Rivers’ disquisi¬ 
tions and the Prince’s vivid imagination invited him. 
But he believed in the survival of the fittest; and, al¬ 
though Mrs. Rivers was very fit, he himself was just 
by a little bit fitter still. Meanwhile the Government 
in the Prince’s country faced its many diflSculties with 
much boldness, and seemed on the whole safe enough. 

The birth and attributes of Rumor have often en¬ 
gaged the attention of poets; who can doubt that their 
rhetoric would have been embellished and their meta¬ 
phors multiplied had they possessed more intimate 
acquaintance with the places where money is bought 
and sold ? For in respect of awakening widespread 
interest and affecting the happiness of homes, what is 
the character of any lady, however high-born,^ con- 
[ 46 } 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 
spicuous, or beautiful, compared with the character of a 
Stock ? Here indeed is a field for calumny, for innuendo, 
for hints of frailty, for whispers of intrigue; the scandal¬ 
mongers have their turn to serve, and the holders are 
swift to distrust. When somebody writes Sheridan’s 
comedy anew, let him lay the scene of it in a Bourse; 
between his slandered Stock and his slandered dame he 
may work out a very pretty and fanciful parallel. 

Here, however, the feats can be set down only plainly 
and prosaically. On all the Exchanges there arose a 
feeling of uneasiness respecting the Stock of the Govern¬ 
ment of Prince Julian’s country; selling was going on, 
not in large blocks, but cautiously, continually, in un¬ 
ending dribblets; surely on a system and with a purpose ? 
Then came paragraphs in the papers (like whispers 
behind fans), discussing the state of the Government and 
the country much in the vein which had marked Mrs. 
Rivers’ dissertations. By now the Stock was down three 
points; by pure luck it fell another, in mysterious sym¬ 
pathy with the South African mining market. Next 
there was a riot in a provincial town in the Prince’s 
country; then a Minister resigned and made a damaging 
statement in the Chamber. Upon this it seemed no more 
than natural that attention should be turned to Prince 
Julian, his habits, his entourage^ his visitors. And now 
there were visitors: nobles and gentlemen crossed the 
Channel to see him; they came stealthily, yet not so 
secretly but that there was a paragraph; these great folk 
[ 47 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

had heard the rumors, and hope had revived in their 
breasts. They talked to Mrs. Rivers; Mrs. Rivers had 
talked previously to Mr. Byers. A day later a weekly 
paper, which possessed good, and claimed universal, 
information, announced that great activity reigned 
among Prince Julian’s party, and that His Royal High¬ 
ness was considering the desirability of issuing a Mani¬ 
festo. “Certain ulterior steps,” the writer continued, 
“are in contemplation, but of these it would be prema¬ 
ture to speak. ” There was not very much in all this, but 
it made the friends of the Stock rather uncomfortable; 
and they were no more happy when a leading article 
in a leading paper demonstrated beyond possibility 
of cavil that Prince Julian had a fair chance of success, 
but that, if he regained the throne, he could look to 
hold it only by seeking glory in an aggressive attitude 
toward his neighbors. On the appearance of this lumin¬ 
ous forecast the poor Stock fell two points more: there 
had been a sauve qui pent of the timid holders. 

Then actually came the Manifesto; and it was ad¬ 
mitted on all hands to be such an excellent Manifesto 
as to amount to an event of importance. Whoever had 
drawn it up — and this question was never settled — he 
knew how to lay his finger on all the weak spots of the 
existing Government, how to touch on the glories of 
Prince Julian’s House, what tone to adopt on vexed 
questions, how to rouse the enthusiasm of all the dis¬ 
contented. “Given that the Prince’s party possess the 
[ 48 ] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 
necessary resources, ” observed the same leading journal, 
“ it cannot be denied that the situation has assumed an 
aspect of gravity.” And the poor Stock fell yet a little 
more; upon which Mr, Shim, who hid a liking for 
taking a profit when he saw it, ventured to ask his 
partner how long he meant “ to keep it up. ” 

“We’ll talk about that to-morrow,” said Mr. Byers. 
“I’m going to call in Palace Gate this afternoon.” He 
looked very thoughtful as he brushed his hat and sent 
for a hansom. But, as he drove along, his brow cleared 
and he smiled triumphantly. If the Prince’s party had 
not the necessary resources they could do nothing; if 
they did nothing, would not the drooping Stock lift up 
her head again ? Now nobody was in a position to 
solve that problem about the necessary resources so 
surely or so swiftly as Mr. Byers. 

A hundred yards from Prince Julian’s house he saw 
Lady Craigennoch walking along the pavement, and 
got out of his cab to join her. She was full of the visit 
she had just paid, above all of Ellen Rivers. 

“Because she’s the whole thing, you know,” she said. 
“ The adherents — good gracious, what helpless crea¬ 
tures! I don’t wonder the Republicans upset them if 
that’s what they’re all like. Oh, they’re gentlemen, of 
couc’se, and you’re not, Byers”—(Mr. Byers bowed 
slightly and smiled acquiescently) — “ but I’d rather 
have you than a thousand of them. And the Prince, 
poor dear, is hardly better. Always talking of what he’ll 
[ 49 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

do when he’s there, never thinking ho./ he’s going to 
get there!” 

Byers let her run on; she was giving him both in¬ 
struction and amusement. 

“ And then he’s afraid — on, not of the bullets or the 
guillotine or whatever it is — because he’s a gentleman 
too, you know. (Or perhaps you don’t know! I wonder 
if you do? Shum doesn’t; perhaps you do.) But he’s 
afraid of losing her. If he goes, she won’t go with him. 
I don’t mean as — as she is now, you know. She won’t 
go anyhow, not as his wife even. Well, of course, if he 
married her he’d wreck the whole thing. But one would 
hardly expect her to see that; or even to care, if she did. 
She’s very odd. ” Lady Craigennoch paused a moment. 
“She’s fond of him too,” she added. “She’s a very 
queer woman. ” 

“ A lady ? ” asked Mr. Byers with a touch of satire. 

“ Oh yes, ” said Lady Craigennoch, scornful that he 
needed to ask. “But so odd. Well, you’ve seen her with 
him — just like a mother with her pet boy! How hard 
she’s worked, to be sure! She told me how she’d got 
him to sign the what’s-its-name. He almost cried, 
because he’d have to go without her, you know. But 
she says it’s all right now; he won’t go back now, because 
he’s given his word. And she’s simply triumphant, 
though she’s fond of him, and though she won’t go with 
him.” Again Lady Craigennoch paused. “People won’t 
call on that woman, you know,” she remarked after 
[ 50 ] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 
her pause. Then she added, “ Of course that’s right, ex¬ 
cept for a reprobate like me. But still-” 

“ She’s an interesting woman, ” said Byers in a per¬ 
functory sympathy with his companion’s enthusiasm. 

Lady Craigennoch cooled down, and fixed a cold and 
penetrating glance on him. 

“Yes, and you’re an interesting man,” she said. 
“ What are you doing, Mr. Byers ? ” 

“Vindicating Right Divine,” he answered. 

Lady Craigennoch smiled. “Well, whatever it is,” 
she said, “Shum has promised that I shall stand in.” 
Again she paused. “Only,” she resumed, “if you’re 
making a fool of that woman — ” She seemed unable 
to finish the sentence; there had been genuine indigna¬ 
tion in her eyes for a moment; it faded away; but there 
came a slight flush on her cheeks as she added, “ But 
that doesn’t matter if it’s in the way of business, does 
it?” 

“And Shum has promised that you shall stand in,” 
Byers reminded her gravely. 

Lady Craigennoch dug her parasol into the streak of 
earth that showed between pavement and curbstone. 

“Anyhow I’m glad I called on her,” she said. “I’m 
not much. Heaven knows, but I’m a woman to speak to. ” 

“To cry to ?” he hazarded. 

“ How do you know she cried ? Think what she’d 
been through, poor thing! Oh, you won’t find her cry¬ 
ing. ” 


[ 51 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

“ I hope not,” said Mr. Byers with a perfect serious¬ 
ness in his slightly nasal tones; and when they parted 
he said to himself, “ That woman hates having to know 
me.” But there were many people in that position; and 
he spent much time in increasing the number; so the 
reflection caused him no pain, but rather a sense of 
self-complacency; when people know you who hate 
having to know you, you are somebody. The thought 
passed, and the next moment he found himself being 
glad that Ellen Rivers had a woman to speak to — or 
to cry to —even though it were only Lady Craigennoch. 

She was not crying when she received Mr. Byers. 
She was radiant. She told him that her part was done; 
now he must do his part; then the Prince would do his: 
thus the great enterprise would be accomplished. That 
odd pang struck Byers again as he listened; he recol¬ 
lected the beginning of Lady Craigennoch’s unfinished 
sentence, “if you’re making a fool of that woman — ” 
That was just what he was doing. He escaped from 
the thought and gratified his curiosity by turning the 
talk to Mrs. Rivers herself. 

“Accomplished, eh?” said he. “And it’s a crown 
for the Prince!” 

“Yes, and great influence for you.” 

“And you’ll be-” 

“I shall be nothing. I shall go away.” She spoke 
quickly and decisively; the resolution was there, but to 
dwell on it was dangerous. 

[ 52 ] 



THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 

“Where to?” lie asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Anywhere.” 

“Back to your people ?” 

She looked at him for a moment. He had allowed 
himself to sneer. Her manner, as she went on without 
taking any notice of his question, proved that Lady 
Craigennoch had been right in saying that she was a lady. 

“My work will be done,” she said. “From the first 
moment.I knew the Prince I determined to use my 
influence in this way. He only — he only needed a little 
encouragement. ” 

“And a little money?” 

“I gave him one, you’re giving him the other. We 
shall both be repaid by his success. ” 

“You’re a very strange woman,” he said. Probably 
he did not know how straight and hard his eyes were 
set on her; they could not leave her. What a pity it was 
that she would not go with the Prince — as his wife, 
or even (to use Lady Craigennoch’s charitably evasive 
phrase) as she was now. To set the Prince on the seat 
of his ancestors was not an exploit that appealed to 
Mr. Byers; but to set this woman on a throne would 
be worth — well, how much ? Mr. Byers detected this 
question in his own heart; he could not help reducing 
things to figures. “Why don’t you go with him?” he 
asked bluntly. 

“It would prejudice him,” she answered simply, 
folding her hands in her lap. 

[ 53 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Then she stretched out a hand toward him and said 
suddenly, with a sudden quiver in her voice, “I talk to 
you like this, and all the time I’m wanting to go down 
on my knees and kiss your hands, because you’re doing 
this. ” 

The lean hand held the square jaw; the attitude was 
a favorite one with Mr. Byers; and his eyes were still 
on her. 

“Yes, that’s what I want to do,” she said with a 
nervous laugh. “It’s so splendid of you.” Her breath 
came fast; her eyes were very bright. At that moment 
Mr. Byers wished that the quick breath and the bright 
eyes were for him himself, not for the helper of the 
Prince; and for that moment he forgot Mrs. Byers and 
the babies in Portland Place; it was years since he had 
had any such wish about any woman; he felt a sym¬ 
pathy with Prince Julian, who had- almost cried when 
he signed the Manifesto, because, if he mounted the 
throne, Ellen Rivers would leave him. 

“We want money now, directly,” she went on. “We 
want the Manifesto in every house. I can manage the 
distribution. And we must pay people — bribe them. 
We must sow seed. It’ll soon come up. And the Prince 
will act at the proper time. ” 

“How much do you want now ?” he asked. 

“Half-a-million now, and another next month,” she 
said. 

“And more before the end ?” 

[ 54 ] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 

“Yes, most likely. You can get it, you know.” 

“And shall I ever get it back ?” 

“The Prince has given his word. ” Mr. Byers assumed 
a doubtful air. “Oh, you’re not as stupid as that; you 
believe him,” she added almost contemptuously. “Do 
you mean it’s a speculation ? Of course it is. I thought 
you had courage!” 

"“So I have,” said Byers. And he added, “I may 
want it all too 1 ” What he would want it for was in his 
mind, but he did not tell her. 

He thought a great deal about the matter that evening 
as he sat by the fire opposite to Mrs. Byers, who knitted 
a stocking and said nothing; she never broke in upon his 
thoughts, believing that a careless interruption might 
cost a million. Millions were in his mind now, and other 
things than millions. There was his faith with his as¬ 
sociates; they were all waiting his word; when he gave 
it, rumors would die away, reports be contradicted, 
the Manifesto pooh-poohed; there would be buyings, 
the Stock would lift up her head again, confidence would 
revive; and the first to buy, the first to return to faith 
in the Stock, would be Mr. Byers and his associates; 
the public would come in afterwards, and when the 
public came in he and his associates would go out again, 
richer by vast sums. The money and his good faith — 
his honor among financiers — bound him; and the tri¬ 
umph of his brains, the beauty of his coup, the admira¬ 
tion of his fellows, the unwilling applause of the hard- 
[ 55 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

hit — all these allured him mightily. On the other side 
there was nothing except the necessity of disappointing 
Mrs. Rivers, of telling her that the necessary resources 
were not forthcoming, that the agitation and the Mani¬ 
festo had served their turn, that the Prince had been 
made a fool of, that she herself had been made a fool of 
too. Many such a revelation had he made to defeated 
opponents, calmly, jestingly perhaps, between the puffs 
of his cigar, not minding what they thought. Why 
should he mind what Mrs. Rivers thought ? She would 
no longer wish to kiss that lean strong hand of his; she 
might cry (she had Lady Craigennoch to cry to). 
He looked across at his wife who was knitting; he would 
not have minded telling anything to her. But so intensely 
did he mind telling what he had to tell to Ellen Rivers 
that the millions, his good faith, the joy of winning, and 
the beauty of the coup, all hung doubtful in the balance 
against the look in the eyes of the lady at Prince Julian’s. 
“What an infernal fool I am!” he groaned. Mrs. Byers 
glanced up for a moment, smiled sympathetically, and 
went on with her knitting; she supposed that there must 
be some temporary hitch about the latest million; or 
perhaps Shum had been troublesome; that was some¬ 
times what was upsetting Mr. Byers. 

The next morning Mr. Shum was troublesome; he 
thought that the moment for action had come; the poor 
Stock had been blown upon enough, the process of 
rehabilitation should begin. Various other gentlemen, 
[5C] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 
weighty with money, dropped in with their hats on the 
back of their heads and expressed the same views. 
Byers fenced with them, discussed the question rather in¬ 
conclusively, took now this side and now that, hesitated, 
vacillated, shilly-shallied. The men wondered at him; 
they knew they were right; and, right or wrong, Byers 
had been wont to know his own mind; their money 
was at stake; they looked at one another uncomfort¬ 
ably. Then the youngest of them, a fair boy, great at 
dances and late suppers, but with a brain for figures 
and a cool boldness which made him already rich and 
respected in the City, tilted his shining hat still further 
back and drawled out, “If you’ve lost your nerve, 
Byers, you’d better let somebody else engineer the 
thing.” 

What her fair fame is to a proud woman the prestige 
of his nerve was to Mr. Byers. The boy had spoken 
the decisive word, by chance, by the unerring instinct 
which in any sphere of thought is genius. In half-an-hour 
all was planned, the Government of the Prince’s country 
saved, and the agitation at an end. The necessary re¬ 
sources would not be forthcoming; confidence would 
revive, the millions would be made, the cou'p brought 
off, the triumph won. 

So in the next fortnight it happened. Prince Julian 
looked on with vague bewilderment, reading the articles 
and paragraphs which told him that he had abandoned 
all thought of action, had resigned himself to wait for 
[57] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

a spontaneous recall from his loving subjects (which 
might be expected to assail his ears on the Greek 
Kalends), that in fact he would do nothing. Mrs. Hi vers 
read the paragraphs too, and waited and waited and 
waited for the coming of Mr. Byers and the necessary 
resources; she smiled at what she read, for she had con¬ 
fidence in the Cause, or at least in herself and in Mr. 
Byers. But the days went on; slowly the Stock rose; then 
in went the public with a rush. The paragraphs and the 
articles dwindled and x^eased; there was a commotion 
somewhere else in Europe; Prince Julian and his Mani¬ 
festo were forgotten. What did it mean ? She wrote a 
note, asking Mr. Byers to call. 

It was just at this time also that Henry Shum accepted 
the invitation of the Conservative Association of the 
Hatton Garden Division of Holborn Bars to contest 
the seat at the approaching General Election, and that 
Lady Craigennoch gave orders for the complete reno¬ 
vation of her town house. Both these actions involved, 
of course, some expense; how much it is hard to say 
precisely. The house was rather large, and the seat 
was very safe. 

Prince Julian sat in his library in Palace Gate and 
Mrs. Rivers stood beside him, her hand resting on the 
arm of his chair. Now and then the Prince glanced up 
at her face rather timidly. They had agreed that matters 
showed no progress; then Mrs. Rivers had become 
silent. 


[581 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 

“Has Byers thrown us over?” the Prince asked at 
last. 

“Hush, hush,” she answered in a low voice. “Wait 
till he’s been; he’s coming to-day.” Her voice sank 
lower still as she whispered. “He can’t have; oh, he 
can’t!” 

There was silence again. A few minutes passed be¬ 
fore the Prince broke out fretfully, “I’m sick of the 
whole thing. I’m very well as I am. If they want me, let 
them send for me. “I can’t force myself on them.” 

She looked down for a moment and touched his hair 
with her hand. 

“If this has come to nothing I’ll never try again. I 
don’t like being made a fool of.” 

Her hand rested a moment on his forehead; he looked 
up smiling. 

“We can be happy together,” he murmured. “Let’s 
throw up the whole thing and be happy together. ” He 
caught her hand in his. “You’ll stay with me any¬ 
how ?” 

“You want me still?” 

“You’ll do what I ask ?” he whispered. 

“That would put an end to it, indeed,” she said, 
smiling. 

“Thank Heaven for it!” he exclaimed peevishly. 

A servant came in and announced that Mr. Byers was 
in the drawing-room. 

“Shall I come too ?” asked the Prince. 

[59] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Oh no,” she aifswered with a strange little laugh. 
“What’s the use of bothering you? I’ll see him.” 

“Make him say something definite,” urged Prince 
Julian. “Let’s have an end of it one way or the other.” 

“Very well.” She bent down and kissed him, and 
then went off to talk to Mr. Byers. 

The fair boy with the business bfiains might have 
been seriously of opinion that th«?e was something 
wrong with Byers’ nerve had he seen him waiting for 
Mrs. Rivers in the drawing-room, waiting to tell her 
that the necessary resources were not forthcoming; he 
hoped that he need tell her no more §ian that; he wished 
that he had not come, but he could not endure the 
self-contempt which the thought of running away had 
brought with it; he must face her; the woman could do 
no more than abuse him. One other thought he had for 
a moment entertained — of offering to let her stand in, 
as Mr. Shum had let Lady Craigennoch; there was 
hardly any sum which he would not have been glad to 
give her. But long before he reached the house he had 
decided that she would not stand in. “By God, I should 
think not,” he said to himself indignantly. 

But he had one phrase ready for her. He reminded 
her of the paragraphs, the rumors, and the Manifesto. 
“We have by these means felt the pulse of the public,” 
he said. He paused, she said nothing. “The result is not 
— er — encouraging,” he went on. “The moment is not 
propitious. ” 


[ 60 ] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 

“You promised the money if the Prince signed the 
Manifesto,” she said. 

“Promised ? Oh, well, I said I’d-” 

“You promised,” said Mrs. Rivers. “What’s the diffi¬ 
culty now ?” 

“The state of public feeling —” he began. 

“I know that. We want the money to change it. She 
smiled slightly. “If the feeling had been with us already 
we shouldn’t have wanted the money.” She leaned for¬ 
ward and asked, “Haven’t you got the money ? You said 
you had.” 

“Yes, I’ve got it — or I could get it.” 

“Yes. Well then —! Why have you changed your 
mind ?” 

He made no answer, and for a while she sat looking 
at him thoughtfully. She did not abuse him, and she 
did not cry. 

“I want to understand,” she said presently. “Did you 
ever mean to give us the money ?” 

“Yes, upon my honor I-” 

“Are you sure She forced him to look her in the 
face; he was silent. She rose, took a Japanese fan from 
a side table, and sat down again; the lower part of her 
face was now hidden by the fan; Byers saw nothing but 
her eyes. “What did you mean ?” she asked. “You’ve 
made us all — the Prince, and his friends, and me — 
look very silly. How did that help you ? I don’t see wliat 
you could get out of that.” 

[Cl] 




LOVE’S LOGIC 

She was looking at him now as though she thought 
him mad; she could not see what he had got out of it; 
it had not yet crossed her mind that there had been 
money to be got out of it; so ignorant was she, with all 
her shrewdness, with all her resolution. 

“And I understood that you were such a clever far- 
seeing man,” she went on. “Lady Craigennoch always 
told me so; she said I could trust you in anything. Do 
tell me about it, Mr. Byers.” 

“I can’t explain it to you,” he began. “You — you 
wouldn’t-” 

“Yes, I should understand it if you told me,” she 
insisted. 

If he told her he was a liar and a thief, she would un¬ 
derstand. Probably she would. But he did not think that 
she would understand the transaction if he used any less 
plain language about it. And that language was not only 
hard to use to her, but struck strangely on his own head 
and his own heart. Surely there must be other terms in 
which to describe his part in the transaction ? There were 
plenty such in the City; were thereinone in Palace Gate ? 

“It’s a matter of business —” again he began. 

She stopped him with an imperious wave of the fan. 
Her eyes grew animated with a sudden enlightenment; 
she looked at him for a moment or two, and then asked, 
“Have you been making money out of it somehow?” 
He did not answer. “How, please ?” she asked. 

“What does that matter ?” His voice was low. 

[ 62 ] 



THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 
“I should like to hear, please. You don’t want to tell 
me ? Rut I want to know. It — it’ll be useful to me to 
understand things like this. ” 

It seemed to Mr. Byers that he had to tell her, that 
this was the one thing left that he could do, the one 
obligation which he could perform. So he began to tell 
her, and as he told her, naturally (or curiously, since 
natures are curious) his pride on the great couj) revived 
— his professional pride. He went into it all thoroughly; 
she followed him very intelligently; he made her under¬ 
stand what an ‘^option” was, what “differences,” what 
the “put,” and what the “call.” He pointed out how the 
changes in public affairs might make welcome changes 
in private pocKets, and would have her know that the 
secret center of great movements must be sought in the 
Bourses, not in the Cabinets, of Europe; perhaps he ex¬ 
aggerated here a little, as a man will in praising what he 
loves. Finally, carried away by enthusiasm, he gave her 
the means of guessing with*fair accuracy the profit that 
he and his friends had made out of the transaction. Thus 
ending, he heaved a sigh of relief, she understood, and 
there had been no need of those uncivil terms which 
lately had pressed themselves forward to the tip of his 
tongue so rudely. 

“I think I’d better not try to have anything more to do 
with politics,” she said. “I — I’m too ignorant.” There 
was a little break in her tones. Byers ‘glanced at her 
sharply and apprehensively. Now that his story was 
[63] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

ended, his enthusiasm died away; he expected abuse 
now. Well, he would bear it; she was entitled to relieve 
her mind. 

“What a fool I’ve been! How you must have been 
laughing at me—at my poor Prince and me!” She 
looked across to him, smiling faintly. He sat twisting his 
hat in his hands. Then she turned her eyes toward the 
fireplace. Byers Iiad nothing to say; he was wondering 
whether he might go now. Glancing at her for permission, 
he saw that her clear bright eyes had grown dim; pnes- 
ently a tear formed and rolled down her cheek. Then she 
began to sob, softly at first, presently with growing and 
rising passion. She seemed quite forgetful of him, heed¬ 
less of what he thought and of how she looked. All that 
was in her, the pang of her. dead hopes, the woe for her 
poor Prince, the bitter shame of her own crushed pride 
and helpless folly, came o.ut in her sobs as she aban¬ 
doned herself to weeping. Byers sat by, listening always, 
looking sometimes. He tried to defend himself to him¬ 
self; was it decent of her, was it becoming, wasn’t it 
characteristic of the lack of self-control and self-respect 
that marks the sort of woman she was ? It might be open 
to all these reproaches. She seemed not to care; she cried 
on. He could not help looking at her now; at last she saw 
him looking, and with a little stifled exclamation — 
whether of apology or of irritation he could not tell — 
she turned sideways and hid her face in the cushions of 
the sofa. Byers rose slowly, almost unsteadily, to his feet. 

[64] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 
“My God!” he whispered to himself, as he stood for a 
moment and looked at her. Then he walked over to 
where she lay, her head buried in the cushions. 

“It doesn’t make all that difference-to you,” he said 
roughly. “You wouldn’t have gone with him.” 

She turned her face to him for a moment. She did not 
look her best; how could she? But Mr. Byers did not 
notice that. 

“I love him; and I wanted to do it.” 

Byers had “wanted to do it” too, and their desires had 
clashed. But in his desire there had been no alloy of love; 
it was all true metal, true metal of self. He stood over 
her for a minute without speaking. A strange feeling 
seized him then; he had felt it once before with regard to 
this woman. 

“If it had been lor you I’d xiave damned the money 
and gone ahead,” he blurted out in an indistinct im¬ 
petuous utterance. 

Agair she looked up, there was no surprise, no re¬ 
sentment in her face, only a heartbreaking plaintiveness, 
“Oh, why couldn’t you be honest with me ?” she moaned. 
But she stopped sobbing and sat straight on the sofa 
again. “You’ll think me still more of a fool for doing 
this,” she said. 

Was the abuse never coming ? Mr. Byers began to 
long for it. If he were abused enough, he thought that he 
might be able to find something to say for himself. 

“You think that because — because I live as I do, I 
[65] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

know the world and — and so on. I don’t a bit. It 
doesn’t follow really, 'you know. Fancy my thinking I 
could do anything for Julian! What do I know of busi¬ 
ness ? Well, you’ve told me now!” 

“If it had been for you I’d have risked it and gone 
ahead,” said Byers again. 

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” she murmured 
vaguely. Byers did not try to describe to her the odd 
strong impulse which had inspired his speech. “I must 
go and tell the Prince about it,” she said. 

“What are you going to do ?” he demanded. 

“Do ? What is there to do ? Nothing, I suppose. What 
can we do ?” 

“I wish to God I’d — I’d met a woman like you. Shall 
you marry him now ?” 

She looked up; a faint smile appeared on her face. 

“Yes,” she said. “It doesn’t matter now; and he’ll like 
it. Yes, I’ll marry him now.” 

Two visions — one was of Mrs. Byers and the babies 
in Portland Place — rose before Byecs’ thoughts. 

“He hasn’t lost much then,” he said. “And you ? 
You’ll be just as happy.” 

“It wasiAhe whole world to me.” said she, and for the 
last^timo she put her handkerchief to her eyes. Then she 
stoiwed it aw.ay in her pocket and looked expectantly 
at her visitor; here was the permission to go. 

“Will you take the money ?” said he. 

“What money ?” 


[ 66 ] 


THE NECESSARY RESOURCES 

“What I’ve made. My share of it.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly! What do I care what money 
you’ve made ?” 

He spoke lower as he put his second question. 

“Will you forgive me he asked. 

“Forgive you She laughed a little, yet looked 
puzzled. “I don’t think about you like that,” she ex¬ 
plained. “You’re not a man to me.” 

“You’re a woman to me. What am I to you then ?” 

“I don’t know. Things in general — the world — 
business — the truth about myself. Yes, you’re the truth 
about myself to me.” She laughed again, nervously, 
tentatively, almost appealingly, as though she wanted 
him to understand how he seemed to her. He drew in 
his breath and buttoned his coat. 

“And you’re the truth about myself to me,” he said. 
“And the truth is that I’m a damned scoundrel.” 

“Are you she asked, as it seemed half in surprise, 
half in indifference. “Oh, I suppose you’re no worse 
than other people. Only I was such a fool. Good-by, 
Mr. Byers.” She held out her hand. He had not meant 
to offer his. But he took hers and pressed it. He had a 
vague desire to tell her that he was not a type of all 
humanity, that other men were better than he was, that 
there were unselfish men, true men, men who did not 
make fools of women for money’s sake, yes, of v/omen 
whose shoes they were not worthy to black. But he could 
not say an^ thing of all this, and he left her without an- 
[67] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

other word. And the next morning he bought the “call” 
of a big block of the Stock; for the news of Prince Julian’s 
marriage with Mrs. Rivers would send it up a point or 
two. Habit is very wrong. 

When he was gone, Mrs. Rivers went up-stairs to her 
room and bathed her face. Then she rejoined Prince 
Julian in the library. Weary of waiting, he had gone to 
sleep; but he woke up and was rejoiced to see her. He 
listened to her story, called Mr. Byers an infernal rogue, 
and, with an expression of relief on his face, said: 

“There’s the end of that! And now, darling-” 

“Yes, I’ll marry you now,” she said. “It doesn’t matter 
now.” 

Thus, as has been said, the whole affair had only three 
obvious effects — the renovation of Lady Craigennoch’s 
town house, a baronetcy for Sir Henry Shum (services 
to the Party are a recognized claim on the favor of His 
Majesty), and the marriage of Prince Julian. But from it 
both Mrs. Rivers and Mr. Byers derived some new ideas 
of the world and of themselves. Shall women weep and 
hard men curse their own work without result ? The 
Temple of Truth is not a National Institution. So, of 
course, one pays to go in. Even when you are in, it is 
difficult to look at more than one side of it at once. Per¬ 
haps Mrs. Rivers did not realize this; and Mr. Byers 
could not while he seemed still to hear her crying; he 
heard the sobs for so many evenings, mingling oddly 
with the click of his wife’s knitting-needles. 

[ 68 ] 



MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 


Chapter One 

O LD Tom Gladwin was not a man to whom you 
volunteered advice. He had made an immense 
deal of money for himself, and people who 
have done that generally like also to manufacture their 
own advice on their own premises; perhaps it is better 
done that way, perhaps there’s just a prejudice in favor 
of the home trade-mark. Anyhow, old Tom needed no 
suggestions from outside. You said, “Yes, Sir Thomas,” 
or “Of course not. Sir Thomas,” or “Certainly, Sir 
Thomas.” At all events, you limited your remarks to 
something like that if you were — as I was — a young 
solicitor trying to keep his father’s connection together, 
of which Sir Thomas’s affairs and the business of the 
Worldstone Park estate formed a considerable and 
lucrative portion. But everybody was in the same story 
about him — secretary, bailiff, stud-groom, gardener, 
butler — yes, butler, although Sir Thomas had confess¬ 
edly never tasted champagne till he was forty, whereas 
Gilson had certainly been weaned on it. Even Miss 
[69] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Nettie Tyler, when she came on the scene, had the good 
sense to accept Sir Thomas’s version of her heart’s de¬ 
sire; neither had she much cause to quarrel with his 
reading, since it embraced Sir Thomas himself and 
virtually the whole of his worldly possessions. He was 
worth perhaps half-a-million pounds in money, and the 
net rent-roll of Worldstone was ten thousand, even after 
you had dressed it up and curled its hair, for all the 
world as if it were a suburban villa instead of an honest, 
self-respecting country gentleman’s estate, which ought 
to have been run to pay three per cent. But the new¬ 
comers will not take land seriously; they leave that as a 
prospect for their descendants when the ready money, 
the city-made money, has melted away. 

. So I took his instructions for his marriage settlement 
and his new will without a word, although they seemed 
to me to be, under the circumstances, pretty stiff docu¬ 
ments. The old gentleman — he was not really old, 
fifty-eight or -nine, I should say, but he looked like a 
granite block that has defied centuries — had, of course, 
two excuses. In the first place, he was fairly crazy 
about Nettie Tyler, orphan daughter of the old vicar of 
Worldstone, an acquaintance of two months’ standing 
and (I will say for her) one of the prettiest little figures 
on a horse that I ever saw. In the second, he wanted — 
yes, inevitably he wanted — to found a family and to 
hand on the baronetcy which had properly rewarded his 
strenuous and successful efforts on his own behalf; it 
[70] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
was the sort of baronetcy which is obviously pregnant 
with a peerage — a step, not a crown; one learns to dis¬ 
tinguish these varieties. Accordingly, to cut details 
short, the effect of the new will and of the marriage 
settlement was that, given issue of the said intended 
marriage (and intended it was for the following Tuesday) 
Miss Beatrice Gladwin was to have five hundred a year 
on her father’s death, and the rest went to what, for 
convenience’s sake, I may call the new undertaking — to 
the Gladwin-Tyler establishment and what might spring 
therefrom. Even the five hundred was by the will only, 
therefore revocable. Five hundred a year is not des¬ 
picable, and is good, like other boons, until revoked. 
But think what Beatrice Gladwin had been two months 
before — the greatest heiress in the country, mistress of 
all! So the old will had made her — the old will in my 
office safe, which, come next Tuesday, would be so much 
waste paper. I have always found something pathetic 
about a superseded will. It is like a royal family in exile. 

Sir Thomas read over the documents and looked up 
at me as he took off his spectacles. 

“One great advantage of having made your own way, 
Foulkes,” he observed, “is that you’re not trammeled by 
settlements made in early life. I can do what I like with 
my own.” 

And I, as I have foreshadowed, observed merely, 
“Certainly, Sir Thomas.” 

He eyed me for a moment with an air of some sus- 
[71] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

picion. He was very acute and recognized criticism, 
however inarticulate; an obstinacy in the bend of one’s 
back was enough for him. But I gave him no more 
opening, and, after all, he could not found an explicit 
reproach on the curve of my spine. After a moment he 
went on, rasping the short gray hair that sprouted on 
his chin: 

think you’d better have a few minutes with my 
daughter. Put the effect of these documents into plain 
language for her.” I believe he half suspected me again, 
for he added quickly: “Free of technicalities, I mean. 
She knows the general nature of my wishes. I’ve made 
that quite clear to her myself.” No doubt he had. I 
bowed, and he rose, glancing at the clock. “The horses 
must be round,” he said; “I’m going for a ride with 
Miss Tyler. Ask if my daughter, can see you now; and 
I hope you’ll stay to lunch, Foulkes.” He went to the 
door, but turned again. “I’ll send Beatrice to you my¬ 
self,” he called, “and you can get the business over 
before we come back.” He went off, opening his cigar- 
case and humming a tune, in excellent spirits with him¬ 
self and the world, I fancied. He had reason to be, so 
far as one could see at the minute. 

I went to the window and watched them mounting — 
the strong solid frame of the man, the springy figure of 
the pretty girl. She was chattering gleefully: he laughed 
in a most contented approval of her, and, probably, 
with an attention none too deep to the precise purport of 
[72] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
her merry words. Besides the two grooms there was 
another member of the party — one who stood rather 
aloof on the steps that led up to the hall door. Here was 
the lady for whom I waited, Beatrice Gladwin, his 
daughter, who was to have the five hundred a year when 
he died — who was to have had everything, to have 
been mistress of all. She stood there in her calm, com¬ 
posed handsomeness. Neither pretty nor beautiful would 
you call her, but, without question, remarkably hand¬ 
some. She was also perfectly tranquil. As I looked she 
spoke once; I heard the words through the open window. 

“You must have your own way, then,” she said, with 
a smile and a slight shrug of her shoulders. “But the 
horse isn’t safe for you, you know.” 

“Aye, aye,” he answered, laughing again, not at his 
daughter but round to the pretty girl beside him. “I’ll 
have my way for four days more. ” He and his fiancee en¬ 
joyed the joke between them; it went no further, I think. 

Beatrice stood watching them for a little while, then 
turned into the house. I watched them a moment longer, 
and saw them take to the grass and break into a canter. 
It was a beautiful sunny morning; they and their fine 
horses made a good moving bit of life on the face of the 
smiling earth. Was that how it would strike Beatrice, 
once the heiress, now — well, it sounds rather strong, 
but shall we say the survival of an experiment that had 
failed ? Once the patroness of the vicar’s little daughter 
— I had often seen them when that attitude obviously 
[ 73 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

and inevitably dominated their intercourse; then for a 
brief space, by choice or parental will, the friend; now 
and for the future — my vocabulary or my imagination 
fjiiled to supply the exact description of their future 
relations. It was, however, plain that the change to 
Miss Beatrice Gladwin must be very considerable. 
There came back into my mind what my friend, neigh¬ 
bor, and client. Captain Spencer Fullard of Gatworth 
Hall, impecunious scion of an ancient stock, had said 
in the club at Bittleton (for we have a club at Bittleton, 
and a very good one, too) when the news of Sir Thomas’s 
engagement came out. “Rough on Miss Beatrice,” said 
he; “but she’ll show nothing. She’s hard, you know, but 
a sportsman.” A sportsman she was, as events proved; 
and none was to know it better than Spencer Fullard 
himself, who was, by the way, supposed to feel, or at 
least to have exhibited, even greater admiration for the 
lady than the terms of the quoted remark imply. At the 
time he had not seen Miss Tyler. 

One thing more came into my head while I waited. 
Did pretty Nettie Tyler know the purport of the new 
documents ? If so, what did she think of it ? But the 
suggestion which this idea carries with it probably asked 
altogether too much of triumphant youth. It is later in 
life that one is able to look from other people’s points of 
view — one’s own not being so dazzlingly pleasant, I 
suppose. So I made allowances for Nettie; it was not 
perhaps so easy for Beatrice Gladwin to do the same. 

[ 74 ] 


Chapter Two 


O F course the one thing I had to avoid was any 
show of Sympathy; she would have resented 
bitterly such an impertinence. If I knew her 
at all — and I had been an interested observer of her 
growth from childhood to woman’s estate — the sym¬ 
pathy of the county, unheard but infallibly divined, was 
a sore aggravation of her fate. As I read extracts from 
the documents and explained their effects, freeing them 
from technicalities, as Sir Thomas had thoughtfully 
charged me, my impassivity equaled hers. I might have 
been telling her the price of bloaters at Great Yarmouth 
that morning, and she considering the purchase of half- 
a-dozen. In fact, we overdid it between us; we were both 
grotesquely uninterested in the documents; our arti¬ 
ficial calm made a poor contrast to the primitive and 
disguise-scorning exultation of the pair who had gone 
riding over the turf in the sunshine. I could not help 
it; I had to take my cue from her. My old father had 
loved her; perhaps he would have patted her hand, 
perhaps he would even have kissed her cheek; what 
would have happened to her composure then ? On the 
other hand, he would have been much more on Sir 
[ 75 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Thomas’s side than I was. He used often to quote to 
me a saying of his uncle’s, the venerable founder of the 
fine business we enjoyed: “Every other generation, the 
heir ought to lay an egg and then die.” The long mi¬ 
nority which he contemplated as resulting from a family 
bereavement prima jade so sad would reestablish the 
family finances. The Chinese and Japanese, I am told, 
worship their ancestors. English landed gentry wor¬ 
ship their descendants, and of this cult the family lawyer 
is high priest. My father would have patted Beatrice 
Gladwin’s cheek, but he would not have invoked a curse 
on Sir Thomas, as I was doing behind my indifferent 
face and with the silent end of my dryly droning tongue. 
I was very glad when we got to the end of the documents. 

She gave me a nod and a smile, saying, “I quite 
understand,” then rose and went to the window. I 
began to tie my papers up ‘in their tapes. The drafts 
were to go back to be engrossed. She stood looking 
out on the park. The absurd impulse to say that I was 
very sorry, but that I really couldn’t help it, assailed 
me again. I resisted, and tied the tapes in particularly 
neat bows, admiring the while her straight, slim, flat¬ 
shouldered figure. She looked remarkably efficient; I 
found myself regretting that she was not to have the 
management of the estate. Was that in her mind, too, 
as she surveyed it from the window ? I do not know, 
but I do know that the next moment she asked me if 
Spencer Fullard were ill; she had not seen him about 
[ 76 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
lately. I said that he was, I believed, in robust health, 
but had been up in town on business. (He had gone to 
raise a loan, if that’s material.) The subject then drop¬ 
ped. I did not, at the time, see any reason why it had 
cropped up at all at that particular and somewhat un¬ 
comfortable moment. 

What had put Spencer Fullard into her head ? 

Suddenly she spoke again, to herself, in a low voice: 
“How funny!” She turned to me and beckoned: “Mr. 
Foulkes!” 

I left my papers on the table and joined her at the 
open window; it was just to the right of the hall door 
and commanded a wide view of the park, which, stretch¬ 
ing in gentle undulations, with copses scattered here 
and there among the turf, gave a fine sense of spacious¬ 
ness and elbow-room — the best things mere wealth can 
give, in my humble opinion. 

“It must be Nettie,” she said; “but why — why is she 
riding like that ?” 

I followed with my eyes the direction in which she 
pointed. 

“And where’s father ?” 

Still a mile or more away, visible now, but from 
moment to moment hidden by an intervening copse 
and once or twice by a deep dip in the ground, a horse 
came toward us at a gallop — a reckless gallop. The 
next instant the faintest echo of a cry, its purport indis¬ 
tinguishable, fell on our ears. 

[ 77 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“It is Nettie,” said Beatrice Gladwin, er eyes sud¬ 
denly meeting mine. We stood there for a moment, 
then she walked quickly into the adjoining hall, and 
out on to the steps in front of the door. I followed, 
leaving my papers to look after themselves on the table. 
When I came up to her she said nothing, but caught my 
wrist with her left hand and held it tightly. 

Now we heard what Nettie’s cry was. The monoto¬ 
nous horror of it never ceased for an instant. “Help ! 
Help! Help!” It was incessant, and now, as she reached 
the drive, sounded loud and shrill in our ears. The men 
in the stables heard it; two of them ran out at top speed 
to meet the galloping horse. But horse and rider w^ere 
close up to us by now. I broke away from Miss Gladwin, 
who clung to me with a strong, unconscious grip, and 
sprang forward. I was just in time to catch Nettie as she 
fell from the saddle, and the grooms brought her horse 
to a standstill. Even in my arms she still cried shrilly, 
“Help, help, help!” 

No misunderstanding was possible.“Where ? Where ?” 
was all I asked, and at last she gasped, “By Toovey’s 
farm.” 

One of the grooms was on her horse in a moment 
and made off for the spot. Nettie broke away from me, 
staggering to the steps, stumbling over her habit as she 
went, and sank down in a heap; she ceased now to cry 
for help, and began to sob convulsively. Beatrice seemed 
stunned. She said nothing; she looked at none of us; she 
[ 78 ] 


MISS GLADWIN^S CHANCE 
stared after the man on horseback who had started for 
Toovey’s farm. The second groom spoke to me in a low 
voice: “Where’s the master’s horse ?” 

Nettie heard him. She raised her eyes to his — the 
blue eyes a little while ago so radiant, now so full of 
horror. “They neither of them moved,” she said. 

So it was. They were found together under the hedge¬ 
row; the horse was alive, though its back was broken, 
and a shot the only mercy. Sir Thomas was quite dead. 

That night I carried my papers back to the office, 
and satisfied myself, as my duty was, that the existing 
will lay in its place in the office safe; since the morning 
that document had, so to say, gone up in the world very 
much. So had Miss Gladwin. She was mistress of all. 


[ 79 ] 


Chapter Three 

A S may be imagined, the situation evoked a 
great deal of sympathy and occasioned an 
even greater quantity of talk. Killed four days 
before his wedding! The poor little bride! She had lost 
so much more than merely Sir Thomas! The general 
opinion* of the Bittleton Club, which may be taken as 
representative of the views of the county, was that Miss 
Gladwin ought to “do something” for Miss Tyler. There 
was much difference as to the extent of this suggested 
generosity: almost every figure between five thousand 
and fifty thousand pounds had its supporters. I think 
that of the entire roll of members only two had no 
proposal to submit (hypothetically) to Miss Gladwin. 
One was myself, tongue-tied by my position as her 
lawyer; the other was Spencer Fullard, who did nothing 
but smoke and tap his leg with his walking-stick while 
the question was under discussion. I remembered his 
summary of the lady hard, but a sportsman.” The 
hard side might indicate that she would leave the situa¬ 
tion as fate had made it. What did the sportsman in 
her say ? I found myself wondering what Captain 
Fullard's views were, supposing he had taken the trouble 
[ 80 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 

— which, however, seemed to he a pleasure to his fellow- 
members — to arrive at any. 

To tell the truth, I resented the gossip about her all 
the more because I could* not stifle an inviiard feeling 
that if they had known her a*s well as I did — or, perhaps 
I should say, had seen her as often as I had (which ie a 
safer way of putting it when a woman’s in the case) — 
they would have gossiped not less, but more. She was 
strange, and, I suppose, hard, ki her total ignoMn|j of 
the idea that there was any such question at all as that 
which kept the Bittleton clubmen* — and of coiwse their 
wives — so much on the gog. Nettie Tyler did not leave 
Worldstone Park. It may be assumed that her bills 
were paid, and probably she had pocket-money. There 
the facts of the case came to a sudden stop. Had Beatrice 
Gladwin turned her into a “companion” ? Anybody 
who chose to put it in that light was, on the apparent 
facts, extremely hard to contradict or to blame, but, as 
I felt, not at all hard to be annoyed at. Well, I had 
always hated the Tyler project. 

Meanwhile Miss Gladwin was exhibiting, as I had 
foreseen she would, extraordinary efficiency; and her 
eflficiency gave me plenty of work, besides the routine 
and not small business incident on the transmission of 
so considerable an estate as Sir Thomas’s. She was 
going in for building as soon as the death duties were 
out of the way; meanwhile she gathered the reins of 
her affairs into her own hands and regulated every 
[ 81 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

deta’il very carefully. Sir Thomas, like many men suc¬ 
cessful in large concerns, had been easy-going alx)ut his 
private interests. I was constantly at Worldstone Park, 
often spending from Saturday to Monday there, and 
devoting the Sunday, less church time, to its mistress’ 
service. She was good enough to treat me with great 
candor, and discussed all things very openly — except 
Miss Nettie Tyler. 

And what of Miss Tyler ? I do not consider — and 
I speak with no favorable prejudice — that that young 
lady’s behavior was open to very serious criticism. 
It surprised me favorably. I admit that she was meek; 
now and then I thought her rather obtrusively meek. 
But then she might naturally have been crushed; she 
might well have been an insupportably mournful com¬ 
panion. She was neither. I could not call her helpful, 
because she was one of the helpless so far as practical 
affairs go. But she was reasonably cheerful, and she put 
forward no claim of any sort whatsoever. She did not 
appear to think that Beatrice ought to “do anything” 
for her beyond what she was doing; and that, to my 
certain knowledge, did not include the gift of even the 
smallest of all the various sums suggested at the Bittleton 
Chib All you could say was that the lady who was to 
have been mistress of Worldstone Park still lived there, 
and made for the moment remarkably little difference. 
When one comes to think it over, this was really im¬ 
mensely to her credit. She might have made life there 
[ 82 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
impossible. Or did she know that in such a case Miss 
Gladwin would send her away quite calmly ? Let us 
give credit where credit is possible, and adopt the more 
favorable interpretation. Things went very well indeed 
in a very difficult situation — till Spencer Fullard made 
his entry on the stage. 

His coming made a difference from the very first. I 
think that the two girls had been living in a kind of 
numbness which prevented them from feeling as acutely 
as they naturally might the position in which the freak 
of fate had placed them. Each lived in thought till he 
came — in the thought of what had been and would 
have been; to neither had the actual become the truly 
real. There had been a barrier between them. Nettie’s 
excellent behavior and Beatrice’s remarkable efficiency 
had alike been masks, worn unconsciously, but none 
the less and by no less sufficient disguises. They had 
lived in the shadow of the death. Fullard brought back 
life.— which is to say, he brought back conflict. 

Nothing was further from his original idea. Like Sir 
Thomas, he was a descendant-worshiper — born to it, 
moreover, which Sir Thomas had not been. I was his 
high priest, so, of course, I knew what he was about. 
He came to woo the rich Miss Gladwin, picking up his 
wooing (he had excellently easy manners) just at the 
spot where he had dropped it when Sir Thomas Glad¬ 
win announced his engagement to Miss Nettie Tyler. 
^^Dropped” is a word too definite. “Suspended” might 
[ 83 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

do, or even “attenuated.” He wa^ a captain — let us say 
that he had called a halt to reconnoiter his ground, but 
had not ordered a retreat. Events had cleared the way 
for him. He advanced again. 

Should I blame him ? My father would have blessed 
him, though he might have advised him to lay an egg 
and die. No; Worldstone was rich enough to warrant 
his living, but of Gatworth there was left an annual 
income of hardly eight hundred pounds. But three 
hundred years in the county behind it! Three hundred 
years since the cadet branch migrated from Gloucester¬ 
shire, where the Fullards had been since the Flood! It 
was my duty to bless his suit, and I did. It was no 
concern of mine that he had, in confidence, called Miss 
Gladwin “hard.” He had called her a “sportsman,” 
too. Set one off against the other, remembering his 
position and his cult. 

Sir Thomas had been dead a year when Fullard and 
I first spent a Sunday together at Worldstone Park. 
He had been there before; so had I: but we had not 
chanced to coincide. It was May, and spring rioted 
about us. The girls, too, had doffed some of their funereal 
weeds; Nettie wore white and black, Beatrice black and 
white. Life was stirring in the place again. Nettie was 
almost gay, Beatrice no longer merely effieient. For the 
first time I found it possible to slip a dram of pleasure 
into the cup of a business visit. Curiously enough, the 
one person who was, as I supposed, there on the pleasant- 
[ 04 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
est errand, wore the most perturbed aspect. The fate of 
lovers ? I am not sure. I have met men who took the 
position with the utmost serenity. But if one were un¬ 
certain to whom one was making love ? The notion was 
a shock at first. 

The girls went to church in the morning; Fullard and* 
I walked round and round the garden, smoking our 
pipes. I expatiated on Miss Gladwin’s remarkable 
efficiency. “A splendid head!” I said with enthusiasm. 

“A good-looking pair in their different ways,” was his 
somewhat unexpected reply. 

“I meant intellectually,” I explained, with a laugh. 

“Miss Tyler’s no fool, mind you,” remarked the 
v^aptain. 

I realized that his thoughts had not been with my 
conversation. Where had they been ? In my capacity of 
high priest, I went on commending Miss .Gladwin. He 
recalled himself to listen, but the sense of duty was ob¬ 
vious. Suddenly I recollected that he had not met Nettie 
Tyler before Sir Thomas died. He had been on service 
during the two years she had lived in Worldstone village. 


[ 85 ] 


Chapter Four 


A fter lunch we all sat together on the lawn. 
Yes, life was there, and the instinct for life, 
and for new life. Poor Sir Thomas’s brooding 
ghost had taken its departure. I was glad, but the evi¬ 
dence of my eyes made me also uneasy. The situation 
was not developing on easy lines. 

With his ears Fullard listened to Beatrice Gladwin; 
with his eyes he watched the girl who was to have been 
her all-powerful stepmother, who was now her most 
humble dependent. I saw it — I, a man. Were the girls 
themselves unconscious ? The idea is absurd. If any¬ 
body were unconscious, it was Fullard himself; or, at 
least, he thought his predicament undetected. I suggest¬ 
ed to Nettie that she and I might take a walk: a high 
priest has occasionally to do things like that when there 
is no chaperon about. She refused, not meekly now, but 
almost pertly. Beatrice raised her eyes for a moment, 
looked at her, and colored ever so slightly. I think we 
may date the declaration of war from that glance. The 
captain did not see it: he was lighting a cigarette. None 
the less, the next moment he rose and proposed to ac¬ 
company me himself. That did almost as well — how 
[ 86 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
far I had got into the situation ! — and I gladly acquies¬ 
ced. We left the two ladies together, or, to be precise, 
just separating; they both, it appeared, had letters to 
write. 

I should say at once that Spencer Fullard was one of 
the most honest men I have even known (besides being 
one of the best-looking). If he came fortune-hunting, it 
was because he believed that pursuit to be his duty — 
duty to self, to ancestors, and, above all, to descendants. 
But, in truth, when he came first, it had not been in 
unwilling obedience to duty’s spur. He had liked Miss 
Gladwin very much; he had paid her attentions, even 
flirted with her; and, in the end, he liked her very much 
still. But there is a thing different from liking — a thing 
violent, sudden, and obliterating. It makes liking cease 
to count. 

We talked little on our visit to the home farm. I took 
occasion once more to point out Miss Gladwin’s effi¬ 
ciency. Fullard fidgeted: he did not care about efficiency 
in women — that seemed plain. I ventured to observe 
that her investment of money on the estate was likely to 
pay well; he seemed positively uncomfortable; After 
these conversational failures, I waited for him. We were 
on our way back before he accepted the opening. 

“I say, Foulkes,” he broke out suddenly, “do you 
suppose Miss Tyler’s going to stay here permanently ?” 

“I don’t know. Why shouldn’t she 

He swished at the nettles as he made his next contribu- 

[ 87 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

tion to our meager conversation. “But Beatrice Gladwin 
will marry some day soon, I expect.” 

“Well ?” 

I was saying little, but at this point Fullard went one 
better. He just cocked his eye at me, leaving me to read 
his meaning as I best could. 

“In that case, of course, she’d be sent away,” said I, 
smiling. 

“Kicked out ?” He grumbled the question, half under 
his breath. 

I shrugged my shoulders. “Everything would be done 
kindly, no doubt.” 

“Not fair on the chap, either,” he remarked after 
some moments. I think that my mind supplied the un¬ 
spoken part of his conversation quite successfully: he 
was picturing the household d trois, he himself was, in 
his mind’s eye “the chap,” and under the circumstances 
he thought “the chap” ought not to be exposed to 
temptation. I agreed, but kept my agreement, and my 
understanding, to myself. 

“What appalling bad luck that poor little girl’s 
had!” 

“One of them had to have very bad luck,” I reminded 
him. “Sir Thomas contrived that.” 

He started a little. He had forgotten the exceedingly 
bad luck which once had threatened Miss Gladwin, the 
girl he had come to woo. The captain’s state of feeling 
was, in fact, fairly transparent. I was sorry for him — 
[ 88 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
well, for all of them — because he certainly could not 
afford to offer his hand to Nettie Tyler. 

Somewhere on the way back from the home farm I 
lost Captain Spencer Fullard. Miss Tyler’s letters must 
have been concise; there was the gleam of a white frock, 
dashed here and there with splashes of black, in the 
park. Fullard said he wanted more exercise, and I 
arrived alone on the lawn, where my hostess sat beside 
the tea-table. Feeling guilty for another’s sin, as one 
often does, I approached shamefacedly. 

She gave me tea, and asked, with a businesslike 
abruptness which I recognized as inherited, “What are 
they saying about me ?” 

That was Gladwin all over! To say not a word for 
twelve months, because for twelve months she had no 
cared; then to blurt it out! Because she wanted light ? 
Obviously that was the reason — the sole reason. She 
had not cared before; now something had occurred to 
make her think, to make her care, to make the question 
of her dealings with Miss Tyler important. I might 
have pretended not to understand, but there was a 
luxury in dealing plainly with so fine a plain-dealer; I 
told her the truth without shuflfling. 

“On the whole, it’s considered that you would be 
doing the handsome thing in giving her something,” I 
answered, sipping my tea. 

She appreciated the line I took. She had expected 
surprise and fencing; it amused and pleased her to meet 
[ 89 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

with neither. She was in the mood (by the way, we could 
see the black-dashed white frock and Fullard’s manly 
figure a quarter of a mile away) to meet frankness with 
its fellow. 

“She never put in a word for me,” she said, smiling. 
“With father, I mean.” 

“She doesn’t understand busihess,” I pleaded. 

“I’ve been expected to sympathize with her bad luck!” 

So had I — by the captain, half-an-hour before. But 
I did not mention it. 

“The Bittleton Club thinks I ought to — to do some¬ 
thing ?” 

I laughed at her taking our club as the arbiter. She 
had infused a pretty irony into her question. 

“It does. Miss Gladwin.” My answer maintained the 
ironical note. 

“Then I will,” said she, with a highly delusive appear¬ 
ance of simplicity. 

I could not quite make her out, but it came home to 
me that her secret resentment against Nettie Tyler was 
veiy bitter. 

She spoke again in a moment: “A word from her 
would have gone a long way with fattier.” 

“That’s all in the past, isn’t it.?” I murmured sooth- 
ingly. 

“The past!” She seemed to throw doubt on the ex¬ 
istence of such a thing. 

The captain’s manly figure and the neat little shape 
[ 90 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
in white and black were approaching us. The stress of 
feeling has to be great before it prevents sufferers from 
turning up to tea. Miss Gladwin glanced toward her 
advancing guests, smiled, and relighted the spirit-lamp 
under the kettle. I suppose I was looking thoughtful, 
for the next moment she said, “Rather late in the day 
to do anything ? Is that what’s in your mind ? Will they 
say that ?” 

“How can I tell ? Your adherents say you’ve been like 
sisters.” 

“I never had a sister younger and prettier than my¬ 
self,” said she. She waved her hand to the new arrivals, 
now close on us. “I nearly had a stepmother like that, 
though,” she added. 

I did not like her at that moment; but is anybody 
attractive when he is fighting hard for his own ? Renun¬ 
ciation is so much more picturesque. She was fighting — 
or preparing to fight. I had suddenly realized the. posi¬ 
tion, for all that the garden was so peaceful, and spring 
was on us, and Nettie’s new-born laugh rang light across 
the grass, so different from the cry we once had heard 
from her lips in that j)lace. 

Beatrice Gladwin looked at me with a suddenly 
visible mockery in her dark eyes. She had read my 
thoughts, and she was admitting that she had. She was 
very “hard.” Fullard was perfectly right. Yet I think 
that if she had been alone at that moment she might 
have cried. That was just an impression of mine; really 
[ 91 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

she gave no tangible ground for it, save in an odd con¬ 
straint of her mouth. The next moment she laughed. 

“I like a fight to be a fair fight, ’’ she said, and looked 
steadily at me for a moment. She raised her voice and 
called to them: “Come along; the tea’s getting cold.” 
She added to me, “Come to my room at ten to-morrow, 
please.” 

The rest of the evening she was as much like velvet 
as it was in a Gladwin to be. But I waited. I wanted to 
know how she meant to arrange her fair fight. She want¬ 
ed one. A sportsman, after all, you see. 


[ 92 ] 


Chapter Five 

S HE was not like velvet v/hen we met the next 
morning after breakfast in her study: her own 
room was emphatically a study, and in no sense 
a boudoir. She was like iron, or like the late Sir 
Thomas when he gave me instructions for his new will 
and for the settlement on his intended marriage with 
Miss Nettie Tyler. There was in her manner the same 
clean-cut intimation that what she wanted from me was 
not advice, but the promptest obedience. I suppose that 
she had really made up her mind the day before — even 
while we talked on the lawn, in all probability. 

“I wish you, Mr. Foulkes,” she said, “to be so good as 
to make arrangements to place one hundred thousand 
pounds at my disposal at the bank as soon as possible.” 

I knew it would be no use, but my profession de¬ 
manded a show of demur. “A very large sum just 
now — with the duties — and your schemes for the 
future.” 

“I’ve considered the amount carefully; it’s just what 
appears to me proper and sufficient.” 

“Then I suppose there’s no more to be said,” I sighed 
resignedly. 


[ 93 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

She looked at me with a slight smile. “Of course you 
guess what I’m going to do with it ?” she asked. 

“Yes, I think so. You ought to have it properly settled 
on her, you know. It should be carefully tied up.” 

The suggestion seemed to annoy her. 

“No,” she said sharply. “What she does with it, and 
what becomes of it, have nothing to do with me. I shall 
have done my part. I shall be — free.” 

“I wish you would take the advice of somebody you 
trust.” 

That softened her suddenly. She put her hand out 
across the table and pressed mine for a moment. “I trust 
you very much. I have no other friend I trust so much. 
Believe that, please. But I must act for myself here.” 
She smiled again, and wdth the old touch of irony added, 
“It will satisfy your friends at the Bittleton Club ?” 

“It’s a great deal too much,” I protested, with a 
shake of the head. “Thirty would have been adequate; 
fifty, generous; a hundred thousand is quixotic.” 

“I’ve chosen the precise sum most carefully,” Miss 
Gladwin assured me. “And it’s anything but quixotic,” 
she added, with a smile. 

A queer little calculation was going on in my brain. 
Wisdom (or interest, which you will) and twenty-five 
thousand a year against love and three thousand — was 
that, in her eyes, a fair fight ? Perhaps the reckoning 
was not so far out. At any rate, love had a chance — 
with three thousand pounds a year. There is more 
[ 94 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
difference between three thousand pounds and nothing 
than exists between three thousand and all the rest of 
the money in the world. 

“Is Miss Tyler aware of your intentions ?” 

“Not yet, Mr. Foulkes.” 

“She’ll be overwhelmed,” said I. It seemed the right 
observation to offer. 

For the first time. Miss Gladwin laughed openly. 
“Will she ?” she retorted, with a scorn that was hardly 
civil. “She’ll think it less than I owe her.” 

“You owe her nothing. What you may choose to 
give-” 

Miss Gladwin interrupted me without ceremony. 
“She confuses me with fate — with what happened — 
with her loss — and — disappointment. She identifies 
me with all that.” 

“Then she’s very unreasonable.” 

“I daresay; but I can understand.” She smiled. “I 
can understand very well how one girl can seem like 
that to another, Mr. Foulkes — how she can embody 
everything of that sort.” She paused and then added: 
“If I thought for a moment that she’d be — what was 
your foolish word ? — oh, yes, ‘overwhelmed,’ I wouldn’t 
do it. But I know her much too well. You remember 
that my adherents say we’ve been like sisters ? Don’t 
sisters understand each other?” 

“You’re hard on her — hard and unfair,” I said. Her 
bitterness was not good to witness. 

[ 95 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Perhaps I’m hard; I’m not unfair.” Her voice 
trembled a little; her composure was not what it had 
been at the beginning of our interview. “At any rate, 
I’m trying to be fair now; only you mustn’t — you must 
not — think that she’ll be overwhelmed.” 

“Very well,” said I. “I won’t think that. And I’ll 
put matters in train about the money. You’ll have to 
go gently for a bit afterwards, you know. Even you 
are not a gold mine.” She nodded, and I rose from my 
chair. “Is that all for to-day ?” I asked. 

“Yes, I think so,” she said. “You’re going away?” 

“Yes, I must get back to Bittleton. The office waits.” 

She gave me her hand. “I shall see you again before 
long,” she said. “Remember, I’m trying to be fair — 
fair to everybody. Yes, fair to myself too. I think I’ve 
a right to fair treatment. I’m giving myself a chance, 
too, Mr. Foulkes. Good-by.” 

Her dismissal was not to be questioned, but I should 
have liked more light on her last words. I had seen 
enough to understand her impulse to give Nettie Tyler 
a fair field, to rid her of the handicap of penury, to do 
the handsome thing, just when it seemed most against 
her own interest. That was the sportsmanlike side of 
her, working all the more strongly because she disliked 
her rival. I saw too, though not at the time quite so 
clearly, in what sense she was trying to be fair to Captain 
Spencer Fullard; she thought the scales were weighted 
too heavily against the disinterested — shall I say the 
[ 96 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
romantic ? — side of that gentleman’s disposition. But 
that surely was quixotic, and she had denied quixotism. 
Yet it was difficult to perceive how she was giving her¬ 
self a chance, as she had declared. She seemed to be 
throwing her best chance away; so it appeared in my 
matter-of-fact eyes. Or was she hoping to dazzle Fullard 
with the splendor of her generosity ? She had too much 
penetration to harbor any such idea. He would think the 
gift handsome, even very handsome, but he would be no 
more overwhelmed than Nettie Tyler herself. Even im¬ 
partial observers at Bittleton had talked of fifty thou¬ 
sand pounds as the really proper thing. If Fullard were in 
love with Nettie, he would think double the amount 
none too much; and if he were not — well, then, where 
was Beatrice Gladwin’s need for fair treatment — her 
need to be given a chance at all ? For, saying love, she 
held every card in the game. 

I went back to Bittleton, kept my own counsel, set 
the business of the money on foot, and waited for the 
issue of the fair fight. No whisper about the money 
leaked through to the Bittleton Club; but I heard of a 
small party at Worldstone Park, and Spencer Fullard 
was one of the guests. Therefore battle was joined. 


[ 97 ] 


Chapter Six 


T he following Saturday fortnight the Bittleton 
Press scored what journalists call a '^scoop” 
at the expense of the rival and Radical organ, 
the Advertiser. Such is the reward of sound political 
princi})lc! Here is the paragraph—“exclusive,” the 
editor was careful to make you understand: 

\Vc arc privileged to announce that a marriage has been arranged 
and will sliortly be solemnized between Captain Spencer Fullard, 
D.S.O., of Gatworth Hall, and Henrietta, daughter of the late Rev- 
F. E. 'Fyler, Vicar of Worldstone. We extend, in the name of the 
county, our cordial congratulations to the happy pair. Cajitain 
Fullard is the representative of a name ancient and respected in 
the county, and has done good service to his King and country. 
The romantic story of the lady whose affections he has been so 
fortunate as to win will be fresh in the minds of our readers. As 
we sympathized with her sorrow, so now we may with her joy. We 
understand that Miss Gladwin of Worldstone Park, following what 
she is confident would have been the wish of her lamented father, 
the late much-respected Sir Thomas Gladwin, Bart., M.P., D.L., 
J.P., C.A., is presenting the prospective bride with a wedding 
present which in itself amounts to a fortune. Happy they who are 
in a position to exercise such graceful munificence and to display 
filial affection in so gracious a form! It would be indiscreet to 
mention figures, but rumor has not hesitated to speak of what 
our gay forefathers used to call “a plum.” We are not at liberty 
to say more than that this in no way overstates the amount. 

AVliereupon, of course, the Bittleton Club at once 
doubled it, and Miss Gladwin’s fame filled the air. 

[ 98 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
This was all very pretty, and it must be admitted 
that Beatrice Gladwin had performed her task in a most 
tactful way. For reasons connected with the known 
condition of the finances of the Gatworth Hall estate, 
it sounded so much better that Miss Gladwin’s present 
should come as a result of the engagement than — well, 
the other way round. The other way round would have 
given occasion for gossip to the clubmen of Bittleton. 
But now — Love against the World, and an entirely 
unlooked-for bonus of—“a plum,” as the editor, with 
a charming eighteenth-century touch, chose to describe 
the benefaction. That was really ideal. 

Really ideal; and, of course, in no way at all corre¬ 
spondent to the facts of the case. The truth was that 
Miss Beatrice Gladwin had secured her “fair fight”— 
and, it seemed, had lost it very decisively and very 
speedily. As soon as it was reasonably possible — and 
made so by Miss Gladwin’s action — for Fullard to 
think of marrying Nettie Tyler, he had asked her to be 
his wife. To which question there could be only one 
answer. Miss Gladwin had given away too much weight; 
she should have quartered that “plum,” I thought. 

But that would not have made a “fair fight” ? Per¬ 
haps not. Perhaps a fair fight was not to be made at 
all under the circumstances. But the one thing which, 
above all, I could not see was the old point that had 
puzzled me before. It might be fair to soften the conflict 
between Captain Fullard’s love and Captain Fullard’s 
[ 99 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

duty as a man of ancient stock. It might be fair to undo 
some of fate’s work and give Nettie Tyler a chance of 
the man she wanted — freedom to fight for him — just 
that, you understand. But where came in the chance for 
herself of which Beatrice Gladwin had spoken ? 

As I have said, I was Captain Fullard’s lawyer as 
well as Miss Gladwin’s, and he naturally came to me to 
transact the business incident on his marriage. Beatrice 
Gladwin proved right: he was not overwhelmed, nor, 
from his words, did I gather that Miss Tyler was. But 
they were both highly appreciative. 

The captain was also inclined to congratulate himself 
on his knowledge of character, his power of reading the 
human heart. 

“Hard, if you like,” he said, sitting in my oflSce arm¬ 
chair; “but a sportsman in the end, as I told you she 
was. I knew one could rely on her doing the right thing 
in the end.” 

“At considerable cost,” I remarked, sharpening a 
pencil. 

“It’s liberal — very liberal. Oh, we feel that. But, of 
course, the circumstances pointed to liberality.” He 
paused, then added: 

“And I don’t know that we ought to blame her for 
taking time to think it over. Of course it made all the 
difference to me, Foulkes.” 

There came in the captain’s admirable candor. Be¬ 
tween him and me there was no need — and, I may add, 
[ 100 ] 


MISS GLADWIN^S CHANCE 
no room — for the romantic turn which the Bittleton 
Press had given to the course of events; that was for 
public consumption only. 

“But for it, I couldn’t possibly have come forward — 
whatever I felt.” 

“As a suitor for Miss Tyler’s hand ?” said I. 

The captain looked at me; gradually a smile came 
on his remarkably comely face. 

“Look here, Foulkes,” said he very good-humoredly, 
“just you congratulate me on being able to do as I like. 
Never mind what you may happen to be thinking behind 
that sallow old fiddle-head of yours.” 

“And Miss Tyler is, I’m sure, radiantly happy 

Captain Fullard’s candor abode till the end. “Well, 
Nettie hasn’t done badly for herself, looking at it all 
round, you know.” 

With all respect to the late Sir Thomas, and even 
allowing for a terrible shock and a trying interval, I did 
not think she had. 

Miss Gladwin gave them a splendid wedding at 
Worldstone. Her manner to them both was most cordial, 
and she was gay beyond the wont of her staid demeanor. 
I do not think there was affectation in this. 

When the bride and bridegroom — on this occasion 
again by no means overwhelmed — had departed amidst 
cheers, when the rout of guests had gone, when the 
triumphal arch was being demolished and the rustics 
finishing the beer, she walked with m'' in the 
[ 101 ] 


were 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

garden while I smoked a cigar. (There’s nothing like 
a wedding for making you want a cigar.) 

After we had finished our gossiping about how well 
everything had gone off — and that things in her house 
should go off well was very near to Beatrice Gladwin’s 
heart •— we were silent for a while. Then she turned to 
me and said: “I’m very content, Mr. Foulkes.” Her face 
was calm and peaceful; she did not look so hard. 

“I’m glad that doing the handsome thing brings 
content. I wonder if you know how glad I am ?” 

“Yes, I know. You’re a good friend. But you’re mak¬ 
ing your old mistake. I wasn’t thinking just then of 
what you call the handsome thing. I was thinking of the 
chance that I gave myself. ” 

“I never quite understood that,” said I. 

She gave a little laugh. “But for that ‘handsome 
thing,’ he’d certainly have asked me — he’d have had 
to, poor man — me, and not her. And he’d have done 
it very soon.” 

I assented — not in words, just in silence and cigar 
smoke. 

She looked at me without embarrassment, though she 
was about to say something that she might well have 
refused to say to any living being. She seemed to have 
a sort of pleasure in the confession — at least an impulse 
to make it that was irresistible. She smiled as she spoke 
— amused at herself, or, perhaps, at the new idea she 
would give me of herself. 

[ 102 ] 


MISS GLADWIN’S CHANCE 
“If he had,” she went on —“if he had made love to 
me, I couldn’t have refused him — I couldn’t, indeed. 
And yet I shouldn’t have believed a word he was saying 
— not a word of love he said. I should have been a very 
unhappy woman if I hadn’t given myself that chance. 
You’ve been a little behind the scenes. Nobody else has. 
I want you to know that I’m content.” She put her hand 
in mine and gave me a friendly squeeze. “And to¬ 
morrow we’ll get back to business, you and I,” she said. 


[ 103 ] 


THE PRINCE CONSORT 


I HAD known her for some considerable time 'before 
I came to know him. Most of their acquaintance 
were in the same case; for to know him was 
among the less noticeable and the less immediate 
results of knowing her. You might go to the house 
three or four times and not happen upon him. He was 
there always, tyat he did not attract attention. You 
joined Mrs. Clinton’s circle, or, if she were in a con¬ 
fidential mood, you sat with her on the sofa. She would 
point out her daughter, and Muriel, attired in a wonder¬ 
ful elaboration of some old-fashioned mode, would talk 
to you about “Mama’s books,” while Mrs. Clinton de¬ 
clared that, do what she would, she could not prevent 
the darling from reading them. Perhaps, when you had 
paid half-a-dozen visits, Mr. Clinton would cross your 
path. He was very polite, active for your comfort, ready 
to carry out his wife’s directions, determined to be use¬ 
ful. Mrs. Clinton recognized his virtues. She called him 
an “old dear,” with a fond, pitying smile on her lips, 
and would tell you, with an arch glance and the slightest 
of shrugs, that “he wrote too.” If you asked what he 
[ 104 ] 


THE PRINCE CONSORT 
wrote, she said that it was “something musty,” but that 
it kept him happy, and that he never minded being in¬ 
terrupted, or even having nowhere to write, because 
Muriel’s dancing lesson occupied the dining-room, “and 
I really couldn’t have him in my study. One must be 
alone io work, mustn’t one ?” She could not be blamed 
for holding her work above his; there was nothing at all 
to show for his; whereas hers not only brought her a 
measure of fame, as fame is counted, but also doubled 
the moderate private income on which they had started 
housekeeping — and writing — thirteen or fourteen 
years before. Mr. Clinton himself would have been the 
last to demur to her assumption; he accepted his in¬ 
feriority with an acquiescence that was almost eagerness. 
He threw himself into the task of helping his wife, not of 
course in the writing, but by relieving her of family and 
social cares. He walked with Muriel, and was sent to 
parties when his wife was too busy to come. I recollect 
that he told me, when we had become friendly, that 
these offices made considerable inroads on his time. 
“If,” he said apologetically, “I had not acquired the 
habit of sitting up late, I should have difficulty in getting 
forward with my work. As it happens, Millie doesn’t 
work at night — the brain must be fresh for her work — 
and so I can have the study then; and I am not so liable 
to — I mean, I have not so many other calls then.” 

I liked Clinton, and I do not mean by that that I 
disliked Mrs. Clinton. Indeed, I admired her very 
[ 105 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

much, and her husband’s position in the household 
seemed just as natural to me as it did to himself and to 
everybody else. Young Gregory Dulcet, who is a poet 
and a handsome impudent young dog, was felt by us all 
to have put the matter in a shape that was at once true 
in regard to our host, and pretty in regard to our hostess, 
when he referred, apparently in a casual way, to Mr. 
Clinton as “the Prince Consort.” Mrs. Clinton laughed 
and blushed; Muriel clapped her hands and ran off to 
tell her father. She came back saying that he was very 
pleased with the name, and I believe that very possibly 
he really was. Anyhow, young Dulcet was immensely 
pleased with it; he repeated it, and it “caught on.” I 
heard Mrs. Clinton herself, with a half-daring, half- 
modest air, use it more than once. Thus Mrs. Clinton 
was led to believe herself great: so that she once asked 
me if I thought that there was any prospect of The 
Quarterly “doing her.” I said that I did not see why not. 
Yet it was not a probable literary event. 

Thus Mr. Clinton passed the days of an obscure 
useful life, helping his wife, using the dining-room when 
dancing lessons did not interfere, and enjoying the 
luxury of the study in the small hours of the morning. 
And Mrs. Clinton grew more and more pitiful to him; 
and Muriel more and more patronizing; and the world 
more and more forgetful. And then, one fine morning, 
as I wag going to my office, the Prince Consort over¬ 
took me. He was walking fast, and he carried a large, 
L1061 


THE PRINCE CONSORT 
untidy, brown-paper parcel. I quickened my pace to 
keep up with his. 

“Sorry to hurry you, old fellow,” said he, “but I must 
be back in an hour. A fellow’s coming to interview 
Millie, and I promised to be back and show him over 
the house. She doesn’t want to lose more of her time 
than is absolutely necessary: she’s in the thick of a new 
story, you see. And Muriel’s got her fiddle lesson, so 
she can’t do it.” 

“And what’s brought you out with the family wash ?” 
I asked in pleasantry, pointing to the parcel. 

The Prince Consort blushed (though he must have 
been forty at least at this date), pulled his beard, and 
said: 

“This ? Do you mean this ? Oh, this is — well, it’s a 
little thing of my own.” 

“Of your own ? What do you mean ?” I asked. 

“Didn’t Millie ever tell you that I write too ? Well, 
I do when I can get a few hours. And this is it. I’ve 
managed to get a fellow to look at it. Millie spoke a 
word for me, you know.” 

I do not know whether my expression was skeptical 
or offensive, but I suppose it must have been one or the 
other, for the Prince Consort went on hastily: 

“Oh, I’m not going to be such an ass as to pay any¬ 
thing for having it brought out, you know. They must 
do it on spec, or leave it alone. Besides, they really like 
to oblige Millie, you see.” 

[ 107 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“It doesn’t look very little,” I observed. 

“Er — no. I’m afraid it’s rather long,” he admitted. 

“What’s it about .P” 

“Oh, it’s dull, heavy stuff. I can’t do what Millie does, 
you see. It’s not a novel.” 

We parted at the door of the publisher who had been 
ready to oblige Mrs. Clinton, and would, I thought, 
soon regret his complaisance; and I went on to my 
office, dismissing the Prince Consort and his “little 
thing” from my mind. 

I went to the Clintons’ about three months’ later, in 
order to bid them farewell before starting for a holiday 
on the Continent. They were, for a wonder, without 
other visitors, and when we had talked over Mrs. 
Clinton’s last production, she stretched out her l^and 
and pointed to the table. 

“And there,” she said, with a little laugh, “is Thomp¬ 
son’s” (the Prince Consort’s Christian name is Thomp¬ 
son) magnum ojpus. Vincents’ have just sent him his 
advance copies.” 

The Prince Consort laughed nervously as I rose and 
walked to the table. 

“Never mind, papa,” I heard Aluriel say, encourag¬ 
ingly. “You know Mr. George Vincent says it’s very 
good.” 

“Oh, he thought that would please your mother,” 
protested the Prince Consort. 

I examined the two large thick volumes that lay on 

[1081 


THE PRINCE CONSORT 
the table. I glanced at the title page: and I felt sorry 
for the poor Prince Consort. It must have been a terrible 
“grind” to write such a book — almost as bad as reading 
it. Rut I said something civil about the importance and 
interest of the subject. 

“If you really don’t mind looking at it,” said the 
Prince Consort, “I should like awfully to send you a 
copy.” 

“Oh yes! You must read it,” said Mrs. Clinton. “Why, 
Vm going to read — well, some of it! I’ve promised !” 

“So am I,” said little Muriel, while the Prince Con¬ 
sort rubbed his hands together with a sort of pride 
which was, on its other side, the profoundest humility. 
He was wondering, I think, that he should have been 
able to produce any book at all — even the worst of 
books — and admiring a talent which he had not con¬ 
sidered himself to possess. 

“I’m going to worry everybody who comes here to buy 
it — or to order it at Mudie’s, anyhow,” pursued Mrs. 
Clinton. “What’s written in this house must be read.” 

“I hope Vincents’ won’t lose a lot over it,” said the 
Prince Consort, shaking his head. 

“Oh well, they’ve made a good deal out of me before 
now, ” laughed his wife lightly. 

I did not take the Prince Consort’s book away with 
me to the Continent. Whatever else it might be, it was 
certainly not holiday reading, and it would have needed 
a portmanteau to itself. But the reverberation of the 
[ 109 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

extraordinary and almost unequaled “boom” which 
the book made reached me in the recesses of Switzer¬ 
land. I came on The Times of three days before in my 
hotel, and it had three columns and a half on Mr. 
Thompson Clinton’s work. The weekly Bvdget, which 
my sister sent to me at Andermatt, contained, besides 
a long review, a portrait of the Prince Consort (he must 
have sat to them on purpose) and a biographical sketch 
of him, quite accurate as to the remarkably few inci¬ 
dents which his previous life contained. It was this 
sketch which first caused me to begin to realize what 
was happening. For the sketch, after a series of eulogies 
(which to my prepossessed mind seemed absurdly ex¬ 
travagant) on the Prince Consort, reached its conclusion 
with the following remark: —“Mr. Thompson Clinton’s 
wife is also a writer, and is known in the literary world 
as the author of more than one clever and amusing 
novel.” I laid down the Budget with a vague feeling that 
a revolution had occurred. It was now Mrs. Clinton who 
“wrote too.” 

I was right in my feeling, yet my feeling was in¬ 
adequate to the reality with which I was faced on my 
return to England. The Prince Consort was the hero of 
the hour. I had written him a line of warm congratula¬ 
tion, and I settled at once to the book, not only in order 
to be able to talk about it, but also because I could not, 
without personal investigation, believe that he had done 
all they said. But he had. It was a wonderful book — 
[ 110 ] 


THE PRINCE CONSORT 
full of learning and research, acute and profound in 
argument, and (greatest of all surprises) eminently 
lucid, polished, and even brilliant in style; irony, pathos, 
wit — the Prince Consort had them all. I laid the second 
volume down, wondering no longer that he had become 
an authority, that his name appeared in the lists of public 
banquets, that he was quoted now by one, now by the 
other, political party, and that translations into French 
and German were to be undertaken by distinguished 
savants. 

And of course both The Quarterly and The Edinburgh 
had articles—“did him,” as his wife had phrased it. 
Upon which, being invited by Mrs. Clinton to an evening 
party, I made a point of going. 

There were a great many people there that night. A 
large group was on the hearthrug. I am tall, and looking 
over the heads of the assembly I saw the Prince Consort 
standing there. He was smiling, still rather nervously, 
and was talking in quick eager tones. Every one listened 
in deferential silence, broken by murmurs of “Yes, yes,” 
or “How true!” or “I never thought of that!” And Muriel 
held the Prince Consort’s hand, and looked up at him 
with adoration in her young eyes. I rejoiced with the 
Prince Consort in his hour of deserved triumph, but I 
did not, somehow, find Muriel as “pretty a picture” as a 
lady told me later on that she was. Indeed I thought that 
the child would have been as well — or better — in bed. 
I turned round and looked for Mrs. Clinton. Ah, there 
[ 111 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

she was, on her usual sofa. By her side sat Lady Trough- 
ton; nobody else was near. Mrs. Clinton was talking 
very quickly and vivaciously to her companion, who 
rose as I approached, gave me her hand, and then passed 
on to join the group on the hearthrug. I sat down by Mrs. 
Clinton, and began to congratulate her on her husband’s 
marvelous triumph. 

“Yes,” said she, “do you see he’s in both the quarter¬ 
lies ?” 

I said that such a tribute was only natural. 

“And it’s selling wonderfully, too,” she went on. 
“You may imagine how much obliged Vincents’ are to 
me for sending him there!” 

“Did you know he was doing it ?” I asked. 

“Oh, I knew he was working at something. Muriel 
used to be always chaffing him about it.” 

“She doesn’t chaff him now, I should think.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Clinton, twisting a ring on her finger 
round and round. Suddenly the group opened, and the 
Prince Consort came through, leading Muriel by the 
hand. He marched across the room, followed by his 
admirers. I rose, and he stood close by his wife, and be¬ 
gan to talk about her last novel. He said that it was 
wonderfully clever, and told us all to get it and read it. 
Everybody murmured that such was their intention, 
and a lady observed: 

“How charming for you to be able to provide your 
husband with recreation, Mrs. Clinton!” 

[ 112 ] 


THE PRINCE CONSORT 

“Papa doesn’t care about novels much, really,” said 
Muriel. 

“You do, I suppose, young lady ?” asked some one. 

“I like papa’s book better,” the child answered, and 
we all laughed, Mrs. Clinton leading the chorus with 
almost exaggerated heartiness. 

And then an enthusiastic woman must needs see 
where Mr. Thompson Clinton (the Prince Consort bid 
fair to be double-barreled before long) worked. She 
would take no denial, and at last Mrs. Clinton rose, and, 
in spite of her husband’s protests, led the way to the 
study. I had been in the room a little while before I 
went abroad. It was much changed now. A row of Mrs. 
Clinton’s novels, indeed, still stood on the top of the 
whatnot, but her “litter” (it had been her own playful 
name for her manuscripts and other properties) had 
vanished. Large, fat, solemn books. Blue-books, books 
of science, of statistics, and other horrors dominated 
the scene. 

“And to think that the great book was actually written 
in this very room! ” mused the enthusiastic woman in awe¬ 
struck accents. “I shall always be glad to have seen it.” 

Again we murmured assent; and the enthusiastic 
woman, with an obviously sudden remembrance of Mrs. 
Clinton, turned to her, and said: 

“Of course you don’t work in the same room ?” 

“Oh, I do my little writing anywhere,” smiled Mrs. 
Clinton. 


[ 113 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“In the dining-room, generally,” added Muriel, 
“when it’s not wanted you know.” 

“Ah, well, you don’t need such complete quiet as Mr. 
Thompson Clinton must have to think out his books, 
do you V’ asked the enthusiastic woman, with a most 
amiable smile. 

“There’s plenty of thought in my wife’s books,” said 
the Prince Consort. 

“Oh yes, of that sorty^ conceded the enthusiastic 
woman. 

Then we went back to the drawing-room, and the 
worshipers gradually took their leave, till only Lady 
Troughton and I were left. The child Muriel looked at 
her wateh. 

“Papa’s got to go on to a party at the —” she begun. 

“There’s no hurry, my dear; no hurry at all,” in¬ 
terposed the Prince Consort. 

“And, anyhow, I’m not going out, Muriel,” said Mrs. 
Clinton. “I’m not asked there, you know.” 

Yet Lady Troughton and I said “Good-by.” The 
Prince Consort came down-stairs with us, and made 
us renew our promises to procure his wife’s novel. “It’s 
really a striking book,” said he. “And, look here, Tom; 
just write her a line, and tell her how much you like it, 
will you ? You’re sure to like it, you know.” 

Lady Troughton stopped on the door-step, and looked 
him full in the face. She said nothing; neither did he. 
But when they shook hands I saw her squeeze his. Then 

[..•I 


THE PRINCE CONSORT 
she was good enough to offer me a lift in her carriage, 
and I handed her in and followed myself. We drove a 
quarter of a mile or so in silence, and when we had gone 
thus far Lady Troughton made what appeared to me to 
be the only remark that could possibly be made. 

“Poor little goose!” said Lady Troughton. 


[ 115 ] 


WHAT WAS EXPECTED OF 
MISS CONSTANTINE 


Chapter One 

D O remember what’s expected of her!” cried my 
sister Jane. 

It was not the first time that she had uttered 
this appeal; I daresay she had good cause for making it. 
I had started with the rude masculine idea that there 
was nothing expected — and nothing in particular to be 
expected — of the girl, except that she should please 
herself and, when the proper time came, invite the rest of 
us to congratulate her on this achievement. 

Jane had seen the matter very differently from the 
first. She was in close touch with the Lexingtons and all 
their female friends and relatives; she was imbued with 
their views and feelings, and was unremitting in her 
efforts to pass them on to me. At least she made me 
understand, even if I could not entirely share, what was 
felt at female headquarters; but I was not going to let 
her see that. I did not want to take sides in the matter, 
and had no intention of saying anything that Jane could 
[ 116 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
quote either to Lady Lexington or to Miss Constantine 
herself. 

“What is expected of her I asked carelessly, taking 
my pipe out of my mouth. 

“Nobody exactly presses her — well, there’s nobody 
who has the right — but of course she feels it herself,” 
Jane explained. She knitted her brows and added, “It 
must be overwhelming.” 

“Then why in the world doesn’t she do it ?” I asked. 
Here I was, I admit, being aggravating, in the vulgar 
sense of that word. For Jane’s demeanor hinted at 
the weightiest, the most disturbing reasons, and I had in 
my heart very little doubt about what they were. 

“Can’t you see for yourself?” she snapped back 
pettishly. “You were dining there last night — have you 
no eyes ?” 

Thus adjured — and really Jane’s scorn is sometimes 
a little hard to bear — I set myself to recover the im¬ 
pressions of the dinner-party. The scene came back 
easily enough. I remembered that Katharine Constan¬ 
tine and Valentine Hare had once more been sent in 
together, and had once more sat side by side. I remem¬ 
bered also that Lady Lexington had once more whis¬ 
pered to me, when I arrived, that the affair was “all but 
settled,” and had once more said nothing about it when 
I left. I remembered watching the pair closely. 

True, I was placed, as a friend of the family, between 
Miss Boots, the Lexingtons’ ex-governess, and Mr. 

[ 117 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Sharpies, Lady Lexington’s latest curate (she always 
has one in tow; some of the earlier ones are now in a fair 
way to achieve gaiters), so that there was nothing very 
likely to distract my attention from the center of interest. 
But I should have watched them, anyhow. Who could 
be better to watch ? Katharine, with her positive inci¬ 
sive beauty (there was nothing of the elusive about her; 
some may prefer a touch of it); the assurance of manner, 
which her beauty gave, and the consciousness of her 
thousands enhanced; her instinctive assumption of 
being, of being most indisputably. Somebody; and to¬ 
night, as it seemed, a new air about her, watchful, ex¬ 
pectant, and telling of excitement, even if it stopped short 
of nervousness — Katharine, with all this, had a claim to 
attention not seriously challenged by Miss Boots’ school¬ 
room reminiscences, or Mr. Sharpies’ views on Church 
questions of the day. 

And Valentine too, the incomparable Val! Of course, 
I watched him, as I always have, when fortunate enough 
to be thrown into his company, with a fascin,ated in¬ 
quiring interest, asking myself always whether I was 
a believer or whether skepticism crept into my estimate. 
Val, however, demands, as the old writers were fond of 
saying, a fresh chapter to himself. He shall have it, or 
at least a section. 

But before ending this one, for the sake of symmetry 
and of my reputation for stage management, also in 
order to justify at the earliest possible moment the im- 
[ 118 ] 


MJSS CONSTANTINE 
portance which Jane attached to the events of the even¬ 
ing, let me add that just beyond me, on the other side 
of Miss Boots, and consequently quite remote from Miss 
Constantine, sat a short young man with a big round 
bullet of a head: it looked as if it might be fired out of a 
cannon at a stone wall, with excellent results from the 
besiegers’ point of view. This was Oliver Kirby, and I 
have to own at once that the more than occasional glan¬ 
ces which Miss Constantine directed, or allowed to 
stray, toward our end of the table were meant, as my 
observation suggested before the evening was out, for 
Kirby, and not, as I had for some happy moments sup¬ 
posed, for me. I am never ashamed of confessing to an 
amiable sort of mistake like that. 


[ 119 ] 


Chapter Two 

W ITHOUT present prejudice to the question of 
his innermost personality, Val was at least 
a triumph of externals. Perhaps I should say 
of non-essentials — of things which a man might not 
have, and yet be intrinsically as good a man — but, 
having which, he was, for all outside and foreign pur¬ 
poses, a man far more efficient. Val was, as I shall indi¬ 
cate in a moment, a bit of a philosopher himself, so he 
could not with reason object to being thus philosophi¬ 
cally considered. Birth had been his discreet friend — 
a friend in setting him in the inner ring, among the fam¬ 
ilies which survive, peaks of aristocracy, above the ffood 
of democracy, and are more successful than Canute was 
in cajoling the waves; discreet in so ordering descent 
that, unless a robust earl, his uncle, died prematurely, 
Val had time to lead the House of Commons (or any¬ 
thing of that sort) before suffering an involuntary ascen¬ 
sion, which might or might not be, at the political mo¬ 
ment, convenient. He had money, too — a competence 
without waiting for his uncle’s shoes. He had no need 
to hunt a fortune: it was merely advisable for him, and 
natural, too, to annex one under temptations not neces- 
[ 120 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
sarily unromantic. Nobody could call Miss Constantine 
necessarily unromantic. 

So much for birth, with all the extraordinary start it 
gives — a handicap of no less than fifteen years, one 
might be inclined to say, roughly generalizing on a com¬ 
parison of the chances of the ‘‘born” and of the bour¬ 
geois. Now, about brains. If you come to think of it, 
brains were really a concession on Val’s part; he could 
have achieved the Cabinet without them — given a 
clever Prime Minister, at least. But he had them just a 
splendid shop-window brains as his birth was flawless 
under the most minute Herald’s College inspection. 
There was, indeed, a lavishness about her mental en¬ 
dowment. He ventured to have more than one subject 
— a dangerous extravagance in a rising statesman. 
North Africa was his professional subject — his foreign 
affairs subject. But he was also a linguist, an authority 
on French plays, and a specialist on thfe Due de Reich- 
stadt. Also he had written a volume of literary essays; 
and, finally, to add a sense of solidity to his intellectual 
equipment, he was a philosopher. He had written, and 
Mr. Murray had published, a short book called “The 
Relimon of Primitive Man.” This work he evolved on 

t) 

quiet evenings in his flat off Berkeley Square in two 
months of an early winter in London. All that can be 
said about it is that it sounded very probable, and set 
forth in exceedingly eloquent language what primitive 
man ought to have believed, even if he did not, because 
[1211 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

it led to a most orthodox, if remote, conclusion. Whether 
he did or not, Val, and most other people, had neither 
time nor inclination to discover. That would, in fact, 
have needed a lot of reading. After all, Val might plea 
the example of some eminent metaphysicians. 

Birth, brains — now comes the rarest of Val’s posses¬ 
sions, one that must be handled most delicately by one 
who would do Val justice at any cost. I mean Val’s 
beauty. Val himself bore it lightly, with a debonair de¬ 
preciation which stopped only, but definitely, short of 
unconsciousness. He had hereditary claims to it; a 
grandmother had attracted — and by a rarer touch of 
distinction repelled — royalty. But Val made it all his 
own. A slim figure, bordering on six feet; aquiline fea¬ 
tures, a trifle ruddy in hue; hands long and slender; 
above all, perhaps, a mass of black hair touched with 
white — ever so lightly silver-clad. The grayness pro¬ 
claimed itself premature, and brought contrast to bear 
on the youthfulness of the face beneath — a face the 
juvenility of which survived the problems of North 
Africa and his triumphs in the a priori. Add to this, a 
fine tradition of school-boy and university athletics, and 
— well, a way with him of which women would talk in 
moments of confidence. 

Speaking quite seriously, I cannot suppose that such 
a fascinating person has often appeared; never, surely, 
a more decorative ? And it was “all but settled” ? Why, 
then, those glances toward our end of the table ? Because 
[ 122 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
they were not for me, as I have already acknowledged. 
Kirby ? The bullet-head, with its cloce-cropped wire- 
thick hair ? Could that draw her eyes from the glories 
of Val’s sable-silver crown ? These things are unaccount¬ 
able; such really appeared to be the case. 


[ 123 ] 


Chapter Three 

A fter dinner I used the freedom of old acquaint¬ 
ance to ask Lady Lexington precisely what she 
meant by saying that it — the alliance between 
Miss Constantine and Valentine Hare — was “all but 
settled.” We chanced to be alone in the small drawing¬ 
room; through the curtained archway we could see the 
rest of the company formed into groups. Val was again 
by Miss Constantine’s side; Kirby was now standing 
facing them, and apparently doing most of the talking. 

“He hasn’t asked her in so many words yet,” said 
Lady Lexington; “ but he will soon, of course. It’s been 
practically settled ever since she came to stay here — 
after her father’s death, you know. And it’s an ideal 
arrangement.” 

“Suppose she refuses him ?” 

“I sha’n’t suppose anything so ridiculous, George,” 
said my friend sharply.“I hope I have more sense! \Giat 
girl would refuse Valentine ?” 

“It would be heterodox,” I admitted. 

“It would be lunacy, stark lunacy. Even for her — I 
admit she has a right to look high — but even for h».r it 
will be a fine match. He’s got everything before mm. 
[ 124 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
And then look how handsome, how fascinating, he is!” 
She laughed. “ Old as I am, I wouldn’t trust myself with 
him, George!” 

“I haven’t met Kirby here before,” I observed, per¬ 
haps rather abruptly. 

“Mr. Kirby? Oh, he’s quite a protege of Frank’s. 
We met him in Switzerland last winter, and Frank and 
he did all sorts of unsafe things together ■— things you 
oughtn’t to do in winter.” 

“He probably stops the avalanches with his head.” 

“I really don’t know where he comes from or who 
he is, but he’s in the Colonial Office, and Frank says 
they think enormous things of him there. I like him, 
but, do you know, he’s rather hard to keep up a conver¬ 
sation with. He always seems to say the last thing about 
a subject first.” 

“Very bad economy,” I agreed. 

“Some people — well, I have heard people say it’s 
hardly polite — when they’re just thinking of some¬ 
thing to say themselves, you know-” 

“He probably can’t help it,” I pleaded. 

“Katharine seems to like him, though, and I daresay 
she’ll get Val to give him a lift in the future.” 

“You’re treating it as quite settled.” 

“Well, it really is; I feel sure of that. It might happen 
any — Why, look there, George! Suppose it happened 
to-night! ” 

Lady Lexington’s air of pleasurable flutter was occa- 
[ 125 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

sioned by a movement in the next room. Miss Constant 
tine was passing from the drawing-room into the library 
beyond, Val holding the door for her. Kirby had not 
moved, but now stood looking at her with a smile. Just 
as she passed through the door she turned, looked at 
him, and made the slightest little grimace. I read it as 
defiance — playful defiance. Whether I was right in that 
or not, it was, beyond all doubt, a confidential communi¬ 
cation of some sort. If “it” were indeed going to be 
“settled,” the moment seemed an odd one for the ex¬ 
change of that secret signal with Mr. Kirby; for her 
grimace was in answer to his smile, his smile the chal¬ 
lenge that elicited her grimace. Yes, they were in com¬ 
munication. What about ? I got no further than an 
impression that it was about Valentine Hare. I remem¬ 
bered the glances at dinner, and mentally corrected the 
little misapprehension which I have already acknowl¬ 
edged. But had the signals been going on all the 
evening ? About Valentine Hare ? 

“I shall wait for news with great interest,” I said to 
Lady Lexington. 

She made no direct answer. Looking at her, I per¬ 
ceived that she was frowning; she appeared, indeed, 
decidedly put out. 

“After all,” she said reflectively, “I’m not sure I do 
like Mr. Kirby. He’s rather familiar. I wonder why 
Frank brings him here so much.” 

From which I could not help concluding that she, too, 

[ 126 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
had perceived the glances toward my end of the table, 
Kirby’s smile, and Katharine Constantine’s answering 
grimace. From that moment, I believe, a horrible doubt, 
an apprehension of almost incredible danger, began to 
stir in her mind. This, confided to Jane, had inspired my 
sister’s gloomily significant manner. 


[m] 


Chapter Four 


A WEEK passed by without my getting any news 
from Lady Lexington. My next advices came, 
in fact, from Jane. One morning she burst into 
my room when I was reading the paper after breakfast. 
I liad been out late the night before, and had not seen 
her since yesterday at lunch. Her present state of excite¬ 
ment was obvious. 

“She’s asked for time to consider!” she cried. “Im¬ 
agine ! ” 

“The dickens she has!” I exclaimed. Of course I 
guessed to whom she was referring. 

“Ah, I thought that would startle you!” Jane re¬ 
marked, with much gratification. “I was at the Lexing¬ 
ton’s yesterday. She is queer.” 

I saw that Jane wanted me to ask questions, but I 
always prefer having gossip volunteered to me; it seems 
more dignified, and one very seldom loses anything in 
the end. So I just nodded, and relighted my pipe. Jane 
smiled scornfully. 

“You’ll go there yourself to-day,” she said. I knew 
you.” 

“i was going, anyhow — to pay my dinner call.” 

[ 128 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 

“Of course!” She was satisfied with the effect of her 
sarcasm — I think I had betrayed signs of confusion — 
and went on gravely: “You can imagine how upset they 
all are.” 

“But she only proposes to consider.” 

“Well, it’s not very flattering to be considered, is it ? 
‘I’ll consider’ — that’s what one says to get out of the 
shop when a thing costs too much.” 

I had to ask one question. I did it as carelessly as pos¬ 
sible. “Did you happen to see Miss Constantine her¬ 
self.?” 

“ Oh yes; I saw Katharine. I saw her, because she was 
in the room part of the time, and I’m not blind,” said 
Jane crossly. 

“ I gather that she hardly took you into her full — her 
inner — confidence.” 

Jane’s reply was impolite in form, but answered my 
question substantially in the affirmative. She added: 
“Lady Lexington told me that she won’t say a word 
about her reasons. You won’t find it a cheerful house¬ 
hold.” 

I did not. Jane was right there. I daresay my own 
cheerfulness was artificial and spasmodic: the atmos¬ 
phere of a family crisis is apt to communicate itself to 
guests. It must not be understood that the Lexingtons, 
or Miss Boots, or Mr. Sharpies, who was there again, 
were other than perfectly kind to Katharine. On the 
contrary, they overdid their kindness — overdid it por- 
[ 129 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

tentously, in my opinion. They treated her as though 
she were afflicted with a disease of the nerves, and must 
on no account be worried or thwarted. If she had said 
that the moon was made of green cheese they would 
have evaded a direct contradiction — they might just 
have hinted at a shade of blue. She saw this; I can quite 
understand that it annoyed her very much. For the rest. 
Lady Lexington’s demeanor set the cue: “It must end 
all right; meanwhile we must bear it.” 

She and Mr. Sharpies and Miss Boots were all going 
to an afternoon drawing-room meeting, but I was asked 
to stay and have tea. “You’ll give him a cup of tea, won’t 
you, Katharine ?” And did my ears deceive me, or did 
Lady Lexington breathe into my ear, as she shook hands, 
the words, “If you could say a word — tactfully” ? I 
believe she did; but Jane says I dreamed it — or made 
it up, more likely. If she did say it, it argued powerfully 
for her distress. 

I had known Katharine Constantine pretty well for 
three or four years; I had, indeed, some claim to call 
myself her friend. All the same, I did not see my way to 
broach the engrossing subject to her, and I hardly ex¬ 
pected her to touch on it in talk with me. My idea was 
to prattle, to distract her mind with gossip about other 
people. But she was, I think, at the end of her patience 
both with herself and with her friends. Her laugh was 
defiant as she said: 

“Of course you know all about it ? Jane has told you ? 

[ 130 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
And of course you’re dying to tell me I’m a fool — as all 
the rest of them do! At any rate, they let me see they 
think it.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s talk of anything 
else. I’ve got no right-” 

“I give you the right. You’re interested ?” 

“Oh, I can’t deny that. I’m human.” 

She was looking very attractive to-day; her perplexity 
and worry seemed to soften her; an unwonted air of 
appeal mitigated her assurance of manner; she was 
pleasanter when she was not so confident of herself. 

“Well, I should rather like to put the case to a sensible 
man — and we’ll suppose you to be one for the moment.” 
She laughed more gently as I bowed my thanks. “On 
the one side is what’s expected of me-” 

“Jane’s phrase!” I thought to myself. 

“What all the world thinks, what I’ve thought for a 
long while myself, what he thinks — in fact, everything. 
And, I tell you, it’s a good deal. It is even with men, 
isn’t it ?” 

“What’s expected of us ? Yes. Only unusual men can 
disregard that.” 

“It’s worse with women — the weight of it is much 
heavier with women. And am I to consider myself un¬ 
usual ? Besides^ I do like him enormously.” 

“I was wondering when you would touch on that 
point. It seems to me important.” 

“Enormously. Who wouldn’t ? Everybody must. Not 
[ 131 ] 




LOVE’S LOGIC 

for his looks or his charm only. He’s a real good sort too, 
Mr. Wynne. A woman could trust her heart with him.” 

“I’ve always believed he was a good sort — and, of 
course, very brilliant — a great career before him — and 
all that.” She said nothing for a moment, and I repeated 
thoughtfully: “Astonishingly brilliant, to be sure, isn’t 
he?” 

She nodded at me, smiling. “Yes, that’s the word — 
brilliant.” She was looking at me very intently. “What 
more have you to say ? ” she asked. 

“A good heart — a great position — a brilliant in¬ 
tellect — well, what more is there to say ? Unless you 
permit me to say that ladies are sometimes — as they 
have a perfect right to be — hard to please.” 

“Yes, I’m hard to please.” Her smile came again, 
this time thoughtful, reminiscent, amused, almost, I 
could fancy, tender. “I’ve been spoilt lately,” she said. 
Then she stole a quick glance at me, flushing a little. 

I grew more interested in her; I think I may say more 
worthily interested. I knew what she meant — whom 
she was thinking of. I passed the narrow yet significant 
line that divides gossip about people from an interest in 
one’s friends or a curiosity about the human mind. Or 
so I liked to put it to myself. 

“I must talk,” she said. “Is it very strange of me to 
talk ?” 

“Talk away. I hear, or I don’t hear, just as you wish. 
Anyhow, I don’t repeat.” 

[ 132 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 

“ That is your point, you men! Well, if it were between 
a great man and a nobody ? ” 

“The great man I know — we all do. But the no¬ 
body ? I don’t know him.” 

“Don’t you ? I think you do; or perhaps you know 
neither ? If the world and I meant just the opposite ?” 

She was standing now, very erect, proud, excited. 

“Ik s a bad thing to mean just the opposite from what 
the world means,” I said. 

“Bad? Or only hard?” she asked. “God knows 
it’s hard enough.” 

“There’s the consolation of the — spoiling,” I 
suggested. “Who spoils you, the great man or the 
nobody ?” 

She paid no visible heed to my question. Indeed she 
seemed for the moment unconscious of me. It was Octo¬ 
ber; a small bright fire burned on the hearth. She turned 
to it, stretching out her hands to the warmth. She spoke, 
and I listened. “It would be a fine thing,” she said, “to 
be the first to believe — the first to give evidence of be¬ 
lief perhaps the finest thing to be the first and last — to 
to be the only one to give everything one had in evi¬ 
dence.” She faced round on me suddenly. “Everything 
— if one dared ! ” 

“If you were very sure —” I began. 

“No!” she interrupted. “Say, if I had courage — 
courage to defy, courage for a great venture! ” 

“Yes, it’s better put like that.” 

[ 133 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“But people don’t realize — indeed they don’t — 
how much it needs.” 

“I think I realize it a little better.” She made no com¬ 
ment on that, and I held out my hand. “I should like to 
iielp, you know,” I said, “but I expect you’ve got to 
fight it out alone.” 

She pressed my hand in a very friendly way, saying, 
“Any single human being’s sympathy helps.” 

That was not, perhaps, a very flattering remark, but 
it seemed to me pathetic, coming from the proud, the 
rich, the beautiful Miss Constantine. To this she was 
reduced in her struggle against her mighty foe. Any ally, 
however humble, was precious in her fight against what 
was expected of her. 


[ 134 ] 


Chapter Five 


M ISS CONSTANTINE’S suppression of names 
and her studious use of the hypothetical 
mood in putting her case, forbade me saying 
she had told me that in her opinion Valentine Hare was 
a nobody and Oliver Kirby a great man, although the 
world might be pleased to hold just the opposite view. 
Still less had she told me that, in consequence of this 
opinion of hers, she would let the nobody go and cling 
to the great man; she had merely discerned and pic¬ 
tured that course of action as being a very splendid and 
a very brave thing — more splendid and brave, just 
in proportion to the world’s lack of understanding. 
Whether she would do it remained exceedingly doubt¬ 
ful; there was that heavy weight of what was expected of 
her. But what she had done, by the revelation of her 
feelings, was to render the problem of whether she 
would embrace her great venture or forego it was one of 
much interest to me. The question of her moral courage 
remained open; but there was now no question as to her 
intellectual courage. Her brain could see and dared to 
see — whether or not she would dare to be guided by 
its eyes. Her achievement was really considerable — to 
[ 135 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

look so plainly, so clearly and straight, through all ex¬ 
ternals; to pierce behind incomparable Val’s shop- 
window accomplishments, his North Africa, his lingu¬ 
istic accomplishments. Due de Reichstadt, French plays, 
literary essays, even his supremely plausible and per¬ 
suasive “Religion of Primitive Man” (which did look 
so solid on a first consideration) to go right by all 
these, and ask what was the real value of the stock in 
the recesses of the shop! And, conversely, to pick up 
bullet-headed Kirby from the roadside, so to speak, to 
find in him greatness, to be “spoilt” (she, the rich, 
courted beauty) by being allowed to hear the thuds of 
his sledge-hammer mind, to dream of giving “every¬ 
thing” to his plain form and face because of the mind 
^ they clothed, to think that thing the great thing to do, if 
she dared — yes, she herself stood revealed as a some¬ 
what uncommon young woman. 

Her appraisement of Val, I was not inclined to dis¬ 
pute; it coincided with certain suspicions which I my¬ 
self had shamefacedly entertained, but had never found 
courage to express openly. But was she right about 
Kirby ? Had we here the rare “ great man ” ? Concede 
to her that we had, her case was still a hard one. Kirby 
had no start; he was in a rut, if I may say so with un¬ 
feigned respect to the distinguished service to which he 
belonged — an honorable, useful rut, but, so far as per¬ 
sonal glory or the prospects of it went, a rut, all the 
same. Unless some rare chance came — they do come 
[ 136 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
now and then, but it was ill to gamble on one here —■ 
his main function would be to do the work, to supply 
the knowledge secretly, perhaps, to shape a policy some 
day in the future; but tulit alter honores. Not to him 
would the public raise their cheers, and posterity a 
statue. Her worship of him must be, in all likelihood, 
solitary, despised, and without reward. Would it be 
appreciated as it ought to be by her hero himself ? But 
here, perhaps, I could not get thoroughly into the skin 
of the devotee; the god is not expected to be over¬ 
whelmed by his altars and his sacrifices — his divinity- 
ship is merely satisfied. 

“Mr. Hare is behaving splendidly,” Jane reported to 
me. She had a constant — apparently a daily — re¬ 
port of him from Lady Lexington, his unremitting cham¬ 
pion. Indeed the women were all on his side, and it was 
surprising how many of them seemed to know his posi¬ 
tion; I cannot help thinking that Val, in his turn, had 
succumbed to the temptations of sympathy. They spoke 
of him as of a man patient under wrong, amiable and for¬ 
giving through it all, puzzled, bewildered, inevitably hurt, 
yet with his love unimpaired and his forgiveness ready. 

“Do you suppose,” I asked Jane, “that he’s got any 
theory why she hesitates ?” 

“Theory! Who wants a theory ? We all know why.” 

“Oh, you do, do you ?” My “exclusive information” 
seemed a good deal cheapened. “Has she told you, may 
I ask?” 


[ 137 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Not she; but she goes every afternoon, just after 
lunch, to Mrs. Something Simpson’s — that’s the man’s 
aunt. She lives in a flat in Westminster, and he goes 
from his office to lunch at his aunt’s every day, now.” 

While I had been musing, Jane had been getting at 
the facts. 

“Val knows that 

“Of course Lady Lexington told him. Let’s have fair 
play, anyhow!” said Jane rather hotly. 

“What does he say about it ?” 

“He’s perfectly kind and sweet; but he can’t, of 
course, quite conceal that he’s” — Jane paused, seek¬ 
ing a word. She ffung her hands out in an expressive 
gesture, and let me have it — “Stupefied!” A moment 
later she added, “So are we all, if it comes to that.” 

“If one dared!” Katharine Constantine’s words came 
back. They were all stupefied at the idea. Would she 
dare to pile stupefaction on stupefaction by confronting 
them with the fact ? 

In the course of the next few days the Powers That 
Be in the land took a hand — doubtless an entirely un¬ 
conscious one — in the game. A peer died; his son, going 
up to the House of Lords, vacated the post of Under¬ 
secretary for the Colonies. Amid a chorus of applause 
and of fiattering prophecies Valentine Hare was ap¬ 
pointed in his place. I met, at one of my clubs, a young 
friend who had recently entered the Colonial Office, 
and he told me that the new member of the Admin- 
[ 138 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
istration’s secretary would in all probability be Oliver 
Kirby. “And it’ll give him a bit of a chance to show 
what he’s made of,” said my young friend, with the 
kindly patronage of youth. 

But, under present circumstances, it might create a 
slight awkwardness, say, about lunch-time, mightn’t 
it ? I doubted whether that appointment would be made. 


[ 139 ] 


Chapter Six 


N OW I come to my share in this history. I confess 
that I approach it with doubt and trembling; 
but it has to be told here. It will never be told 
anywhere else — certa nly not at the Lexingtons’, nor 
above all, for my peace’ sake, to my sister Jane. 

The following day was a Sunday, and, according to 
a not infrequent practice of mine, I took a walk in Hyde 
Park in the morning — in the early hours before the 
crowd turned out. The place was almost deserted, for 
he weather was aw and chilly; but there, by some 
supernatural interposition as I am convinced, whether 
benign or malignant only the passage of years can show, 
in a chair at the corner of the Row sat Oliver Kirby. 
I stopped before him and said “Hallo!” 

I had forgotten how entirely formal our previous 
acquaintance had been, perhaps because I had been 
thinking about him so much. 

He greeted me cordially, indeed gladly, as I fancied, 
and, when I objected to sitting in the chilly air, he pro¬ 
posed to share my walk. I mentioned the secretaryship, 
remarking that I understood it was a good thing for a 
man to get. He shrugged his shoulders, then turned to 
[ 140 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 
me, and said, with a sudden twinkle lighting up his eyes, 
“ One might be able to keep our friend straight, per¬ 
haps.” 

“You think he needs it ?” 

“It’s only a matter of time for that man to come a 
cropper. The first big affair he gets to handle, look out! 
I’m not prejudiced. He’s a very good fellow, and I like 
him — besides being amused at him. But what I say is 
true.” He spoke with an uncanny certainty. 

“What makes you say it ?” 

Kirby took my arm. “The man is constitutionally in¬ 
capable of thinking in the right order. It’s always the 
same with him, I don’t care whether it’s an article about 
North Africa or that book of his about primitive man. 
He always — not occasionally, but always — starts 
with his conclusion and works backwards to the prem¬ 
ises. North Africa ought to be that shape — it is! Primi¬ 
tive man ought to have thought that — he did! You see ? 
The result is, that the facts have to adapt themselves 
to these conclusions of his. Now that habit of mind, 
Wynne, makes a man who has to do with public affairs 
a dangerous and pernicious fool. He oughtn’t to be al¬ 
lowed about. What, I should like to know, does he think 
the Almighty made facts for! Not to be looked at, evi¬ 
dently ! ” 

I was much refreshed by this lively indignation of the 
intellect. But, “You’re quite sure you’re not preju¬ 
diced?” said I. 


[ 141 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“I said it all in a review of his book before I ever met 
him, or came into-” 

“Conflict wdth him ?” I ventured to interpose. 

He looked at me gravely. I thought he was going to tell 
me to mind my own business. I have so little that I never 
welcome that injunction. Then he smiled. 

“I forgot that I’d met you at the Lexingtons’,” he 
said. 

“I don’t think you need have told me that you’d 
forgotten.” 

“Well, I had,” said he, staring a little. 

“But you needn’t have said so —needn’t have put it 
that way.” 

“Oh!” He seemed to be considering quite a new 
point of view. 

“Not that I’m offended. I only point it out for your 
good. You expect people to be too much like you. The 
rest of us have feelings-” 

“I’ve feelings, Wynne,” he interrupted quickly. 

“Fancies-” 

“Ah, well — perhaps those too, sometimes.” 

“Fears-” 

He squeezed my arm. “You’ve struck me the right 
morning,” he said. 

“Think whal you’re asking of—the person we mean.” 

“She’s to give me her answer after lunch to-day.” 

‘I believe it will be ‘ No’— unless you can do some¬ 
thing.” 


[ 142 ] 






MISS CONSTANTINE 

He looked at me searchinglj, “What’s in your mind ?” 
he asked. ‘ Out with it! This is a big thing to me, you 
know.” 

“It’s a big thing to her. I know it is. Yes, she has said 
something o me. But I think she’ll say ‘No,’ unless — 
well, unless you treat her as you want Val Hare to treat 
North Africa and primitive man. Apply your own rules, 
my friend. Reason in the right order!” 

He smiled grimly. “Develop that a little,” he re¬ 
quested, or, rather, ordered. 

“It’s not your feelings, or your traditions, or your 
surround'ngs, that count now. And it’s not what you 
think she ought to feel, nor what she ought as a fact to 
feel, nor even what she’s telling herself she ought to be 
brave enough and strong enough to feel. It’s what she 
must feel, has been bred to feel, and in the end does feel. 
What she does feel will beat you unless you find a way 
out.” 

“What does she feel?” 

“That’s it’s failure, and that all the other girls will 
say so — failure in the one great opportunity of her life, 
in the one great thing that’s expected to her; that it’s 
final; that she must live all her life a failure among those 
who looked to her for a great success. And the others 
will make successes! Would it be a small thing for a 
man ? What is it to a girl ?” 

“A failure, to marry me ? You mean she feels that ?” 

“ Facts, please! Again facts! Not what you think you 
[ 143 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

are, or are sure you are, or are convinced you could be; 
just what you are — Mr. Kirby of the Colonial Office, 
lately promoted — it is promotion, isn’t it f — to be 
secretary to-” 

“Stop! I just want to run over all that,” he said. 

At, and from, this point I limit my liability. I had 
managed to point out — it really was not easy to set up 
to tell him things — where I thought he was wrong. 
Somehow, amid my trepidation, I was aware of a 
pleasure in talking to a splendidly open and candid 
mind. He was surprised that he had been wrong — that 
touch of a somewhat attractive arrogance there was 
about him -— but the mere suspicion of being wrong 
made him attentive to the uttermost. Tell him he hadn’t 
observed his facts, and he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, rest till 
he had substantiated, or you had withdrawn, the impu¬ 
tation. But, as I say, to suggest the mistake was all I did. 
I had no precise remedy ready; I believe I had only a 
hazy idea of what might be done by a more sympathetic 
demeanor, a more ample acknowledgment of Miss 
Constantine’s sacrifice — a notion that she might do the 
big thing if he made her think it the enormous thing, 
aren’t even girls like that sometimes ? The sower of the 
seed is entitled to some credit for the crop; after all, 
though, the ground does more. I take none too much 
credit for my hint, nor desire to take too much respon¬ 
sibility. 

He caught me by the arm and pulled me down onto 
[ 144 ] 



MISS CONSTANTINE 
a bench — a free seat just by the east end of the Serpen¬ 
tine. 

“Yes, I see,” he said. “I’ve been an ass. Just since 
you spoke, it’s all come before me — in a sort of way it 
grew up in my mind. I know how she feels now — both 
ways. I only knew how she felt about my end of the 
thing before. I was antagonistic to the other thing. I 
couldn’t see Val as a sort of Westminster Abbey for the 
living — that’s the truth. Never be antagonistic to facts 
— you’ve taught me that lesson once more, Wynne.” 
He broke into a sudden amused smile. “I say, if your 
meddling is generally as useful as it has been to me, I 
don’t see why you shouldn’t go on meddling, old chap.” 

I let that pass, though I should have preferred some 
such word as “interpose” or “intervene,” or “act as 
an intermediary.” I still consider that I had been in some 
sense invited — well, at any rate, tempted — to — well, 
as I have suggested, intervene. 

“What are you going to do ?” I asked. 

“Settle it,” replied Mr. Oliver Kirby, rising from the 
bench. 

He might have been a little more communicative. It 
is possible to suggest that. As a matter of fact, he was 
the best part of the way to Hyde Park Corner before I 
realized that I was sitting alone on the bench. 


[ 145 ] 


Chapter Seven 


H ad Kirby been at my elbow, his bullet-head al¬ 
most audibly pricing my actions, relentlessly 
assessing them, even while he admitted that 
they had done him good, I imagine that I should not 
have gone. His epithet rankled. I a meddler ? I can only 
say that it is a fortunate circumstance that he never 
knew Jane. 

However, I did call on Lady liCxington that after¬ 
noon, and found just a snug family party — that was 
what my hostess called it. In fact, besides myself, the 
only outsider was Valentine Hare; and could he be 
called an outsider ? His precise appellation hung in 
suspense. Talk was intimate and bright. 

In view of Val’s appointment, it was natural that it 
should turn on the Colonies. Val himself hinted that the 
Foreign Office would have given more scope for his 
specialty (he meant North Africa, not the “Religion of 
Primitive Man ”); but Miss Constantine was hot on the 
Colonies, going so far, indeed, as to get out an atlas and 
discuss thousands of square miles, and wheat belts, and 
things like that. Once or twice I fancied that the new 
Under-Secretary would have been glad not to be quite 
[ 146 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 

so new; a few days of coaching from, say, Kirby (Had 
she had — ? At lunch ? No; it was hardly thinkable; he 
couldn’t have taken that moment to instruct her) would 
have equipped him better for excellently informed con¬ 
versation. As for poor Lexington, he broke down entirely 
when she got out to Assiniboia and Saskatchewan, and 
said frankly that in his opinion there was more of Can¬ 
ada than any man could be expec ed to know about. 
That did not seem to be at all Miss Constantine’s view. 
She was stopped only by the ocean. I am not sure that a 
vaulting ambition did not confederate Japan. 

Val was delighted. Miss Constantine was so cordial, 
so interested, so congratulatory on his appointment. 
There was, as it seemed to me, a serenity in her manner 
which had recently been lacking — a return of her old 
assurance, softened still, but not now by the air of 
appeal; it was rather by an extreme friendliness. Val 
must have felt the friendliness too, I think, for he ex¬ 
panded wonderfully, discoursing with marvelous fe¬ 
cundity, and with a knowledge as extensive as it was 
indefinite, of the British possessions beyond the seas. 
All said and done, he knew a lot more than I did; but, 
then, I was not his competitor. 

So we got on splendidly together. Lady Lexington 
beamed, her lord warmed himself happily. Miss Con¬ 
stantine was graciousness itself, Val basked and blos¬ 
somed — and I wond'ered what the deuce had happened 
at Mrs. Something Simpson’s fiat in Westminster. 

[ 147 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

(Her real name was Whitaker Simpson, and I believe 
Jane knew it quite well.) 

Yes, she was monstrously friendly — distrust that in 
your mistress whether wooed or won. She would do 
everything for Val that afternoon, except be left alone 
with him. The Lexingtons went,— you can hardly stop 
people going in their own house; Miss Boots and Mr. 
Sharpies, who were both there, went — to church. I 
tried to go, but she wouldn’t let me. Her refusal was 
quite obvious: Val — he was impeccable in manners — 
saw it. After precisely the right interval he rose and took 
his leave. I had the atlas on my knees then (we had got 
back to Assiniboia), and I studied it hard; but, honestly, 
I couldn’t help hearing. The tones of her voice, at least, 
hinted at no desire for privacy. 

“ Once more a thousand congratulations — a thou¬ 
sand hopes for your success,” she said, giving him her 
hand, as I suppose — my eyes were on the atlas. 

“After that I shall feel I’m working for you,” he re¬ 
plied gallantly. No doubt his very fine eyes pointed the 
remark. 

“Shall you?” she said, and laughed a little. “Oh, 
you’ll — I’ll write you a note quite soon — to-morrow 
or Tuesday. I won’t forget. And — good-by!” 

“To-morrow or Tuesday ? That’s certain ?” His voice 
had an eagerness in it now. 

“Yes, certain. I won’t forget. And — good-by!” 

“Good-by!” he said, and I heard the door open 
[ 148 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 

“A thousand hopes!” she said again. 

I suppose he made some response, but in words he 
made none. The door closed behind him. 

I put the atlas on the sofa by me, got uo, and went to 
her. 

“I suppose I may go now, too I said. 

“How clever you’re growing, Mr. Wynne! But just 
let him get out of the house. We mustn’t give it away.” 

A moment or two we stood in silence. Then she said: 
“You understand things. You shall have a note too — 
and a thousand hopes. And — good-by!” 

Not a suspicion of the meaning of this afternoon’s 
scene crossed my mind, which fact proved me, I dare¬ 
say, to be very stupid. But Val was hardly likely to see 
more clearly, and I can’t altogether justify the play she 
made with the atlas and x4ssiniboia. As an exercise in 
irony, however, it had its point. 


149 ] 


CJia^jter Eight 


I DO not know what was in Val’s note: more of 
good-})y, and more than a thousand hopes, I 
imagine. Is it fanciful to mark that she has al¬ 
ways said “hope” and never “confidence” ? Mine bade 
me be at a certain corner of a certain street at eleven- 
thirty. “Where you will find me. Say nothing about it.” 
It was a little hard to say nothing whatever to Jane. 

I went and met them at the corner — Mrs. Some¬ 
thing Simpson, Kirby, and Miss Constantine. Thence 
\VG repaired to a registry office, and they (I do not in¬ 
clude Mrs. Simpson) were married. They were to sail 
from I.(iverpool that afternoon, and we went straight 
from the office to Euston. I think it was only when the 
question of luggage arose that I gasped out, “Where are 
you going ?” 

“To Canada,” said Kirby briskly. 

“For your trip ?” 

“For good and all,” he answered. “I’ve got leave — 
and sent in my resignation.” 

“And I’ve sent in my resignation too,” she said. “Mr. 
Wynne, try to think of me as only half a coward.” 

“I — I don’t understand,” I stammered 
[ 150 ] 


MISS CONSTANTINE 

“But it’s your own doing,” he said. “Over there she 
won’t be a failure all her life!” 

“Not because I’ve married him, at any rate,” Kath- 
uine said, looking very happy. 

“I told you I should settle it — and so I did,” Kirby 
added. “And I’m grateful to you. I’m always grateful 
to a fellow who makes me understand.” 

“Good heavens!” I cried. “You’re not making me 
responsible ?” 

“For all that follows!” she answered, with a merry 
laugh. “Yes!” 

That’s all very well, but suppose he gets to the top of 
the tree, as the fellow will, and issues a Declaration of 
Independence ? At least he’ll be Premier, and come over 
to a conference some day. Val will be secretary for the 
Colonies, probably (unless he has come that cropper). 
There’s a situation for you! Well, I shall just leave town. 
I daresay I sha’n’t be missed. 

Lady Lexington carried it off well. She said that, 
from a strain of romance she had observed in the girl, 
the marriage was just what was to b6 expected of Kath¬ 
arine Constantine. 


[ 151 ] 


SLIM-FINGERED JIM 


Chapter One 


THAT did he get?” I asked. I had been 
working in my own room all the morning 
and had not seen the papers — they arrived 
from London about half-past eleven. 

“Seven years’ penal servitude,” said our host the 
Major with grim satisfaction. 

“Stiff!” I commented. 

“Not a bit too much,” asserted the Major, helping 
himself to game pie again — he is a good luncher. “He’s 
a thoroughly bad lot — a professional thief, and a 
deuced clever one. It’s his first conviction, but it ought 
to have been his tenth, I should say.” 

“He was certainly in that big American bond rob¬ 
bery,” said Crookes, “though he got off that time. Ox¬ 
ford man, wasn’t he ?” 

“Yes. In fact I believe I was up one term with him,” 
said Millington. “I must have seen him, I think, but I 
can’t remember him.” 

“Dear, dear!” our hostess observed, shocked appar¬ 
ently at this close proximity to the criminal classes. 

[ 152 ] 


SLIM-FINGERED JIM 

“Rather good what the chap said when he’d been 
sentenced,” drawled Charlie Pryce. “See it ? Well, he 
bowed to the judge, and then he bowed to the jury, and 
smiled, and shrugged his shoulders, and said: ‘The 
risks of the profession, gentlemen! Au revoir!' Jolly 
good cheek!” Charlie’s round red face — he is very well 
nourished, as they say at inquests — beamed almost 
sympathetically. 

“I suppose he owes his nickname to his professional 
dexterity ?” said I. 

“Suppose so,” agreed Charlie. 

“No,” said Mrs. Pryce, who was at the other end of 
the table. “His name is James-” 

“Yes, James Painter Walsh,” interposed the Major, 
accurate always. 

“But he was called ‘Slim-Fingered’ because he had 
beautiful hands with very slender tapering fingers.” 

“Hallo, Minnie!” cried Pryce. “How do you know 
that ?” 

“He told me himself,” she answered with a smile and 
the hint of a blush. “I crossed from America with him 
the time he was arrested at Queenstown for the bond 
robbery, and — well, we got acquainted. Of course 
nobody knew who he was.” 

A torrent of questions overwhelmed Mrs. Pryce. 
She had achieved fame — she had known the hero of 
the last great jewel robbery. She spoke of him from 
first-hand knowledge. The unrivaled attraction of 
[ 153 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

crime — crime in the grand manner — fascinates us all. 
But she wouldn’t say much. 

“He was just an acquaintance for the voyage,” she 
told us; “though, of course, it was rather a shock when 
he was arrested at Queenstown.” 

“Oh, what a surprise!” exclaimed Charlie Pryce 
jovially. 

“A surprise ?” She seemed to me to start ever so little. 
“Oh yes, of course — terrible!” she went on the next 
instant. 

“Was he nice asked our hostess. 

“Yes, he was very — very attractive,” she answered. 
And somehow I fancy her glance rested for a moment 
on her husband — indeed on a particular portion of him. 
Charlie was just lighting the after-lunch cigarette. 
Charlie’s hands — he is a very good fellow and well off 
— are decidedly red and particularly podgy. 


[ 154 ] 


Chapter Two 


I LIKJ^D Mrs. Pryce very much. She was pretty, 
dainty, bright, and — well, bachelors are so apt to 
think that pretty married women have a dull time 
at home that I will lay no stress on my own private 
opinion as to her domestic lot. Enough that I was always 
glad to talk with her, and that it was pleasant to walk 
with her in the Major’s quiet old garden on a fine night 
when the wind stirred the boughs and the moon shone. 
Inside they had taken to pool — and whisky-and-soda. 
I play the former badly, and take the latter when the 
evening is more advanced. 

“Beautiful moon!” I observed, enjoying Nature, my 
company, and my cigar. 

She was silent a moment. Then she said: “It shone 
just like that the third night out from New York.” 

“Your last trip ?” She crosses pretty often, as Charlie 
has business connections on the other side. 

“No. The one when — the one we were talking about 
at lunch.” 

“Ah! When our friend of the slim fingers -- 

“Yes.” 

“Let’s sit down,” I suggested. We were just passing 
a garden seat. 


[ 155 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

She smiled at me half sadly, half mockingly. She saw 
through me; she knew I wanted to hear more about it. 
By some sort of sympathy I knew that she wanted to 
talk about it. It was queer, too, to consider through what 
window that moon was shining on Slim-Fingered Jim. 
Did it — and his other surroundings — remind him of 
the broad Atlantic ? “The risks of the profession, gentle¬ 
men!” 

“Yes, he had beautiful hands,” she murmured. 

“What’ll they look like when-?” 

She caught my hand sharply in hers. “Hush, hush!” 
she whispered. I felt ashamed of myself, but of course 
I couldn’t have known that — well, that she’d feel it like 
that. 

“I was quite a girl,” she went on presently. “Yes, 
it’s six years ago — and the first two days of that voyage 
were like days in heaven. You know what it can be when 
it’s fine ? You seem never to have known what space was 
before — and bigness — and blueness. Do you know 
what I mean ?” 

“It’s very exhilarating.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly! Of course nobody was ill — any¬ 
how only the people who meant to be before they started 
— and we had an awfully jolly table.” 

“Mr. Walsh one of your party ?” 

“Yes, he was at our table. I — sat next to him.” 

I turned half round and looked at her. The moon was 
strong, I could see her eyes. 

[ 156 ] 


SLIM-FINGERED JIM 

“Look here, do you want to go on with this story I 
asked. 

“Yes, I think so — I’ve never told it before. But per¬ 
haps I’ll skip a little of it.” 

“At the be^inidng ?” 

“Yes. Will you imagine the san snming by day and 
the moon by night ?” 

“Yes. And a sparkling sea ? And nothing to do ? 

“Yes. And a young girl — quite a young girl.” 

“Yes. And beautiful hands — and the rest to match ?” 

“Yes — including a voice.” 

“Yes. Let’s skip to the second evening, shall we, Mrs. 
Pryce ?” 

“Will you be a little more imaginative and skip to the 
third afternoon ?” 

“The third afternoon be it. What’s happening when 
we begin the story again ?” 

“I’m in my mother’s state-room, getting a tremendous 
lecture. I’m not sure you ought to hear it.” 

“Oh, I know all about it. You meant no harm, prob¬ 
ably, but really it was time you learned to be more careful. 
Attractive girls couldn’t be too careful. Men were so 
ready to think this and that — and say this and that — 
and then go and boast about it in the smoking-room. 
And what did you or your mother know about him ? 
Nothing! Absolutely nothing! No doubt he was a gentle¬ 
man, and very pleasant and amusing — but really you 
knew nothing. He was probably an adventurer. And 
[ 157 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

anyhow — well, really it wasn’t quite — not quite — 
ladylike to — to-” 

“Yes, that’s not a bad imagination,” interrupted Mrs. 
Pryce. “Add mama’s pince-nez, and it’s quite lifelike.” 

“And the result.?” 

“Great constraint in my manner toward Mr. Walsh 
at dinner that evening.” 

“And — further result — a melancholy walk by you 
on the deck after dinner — a walk at first solitary — 
subsequently shared by a puzzled and humble Mr. 
Walsh ?” 

“I begin to think you have more experience than you 
always admit,” said Mrs. Pryce. “But I think you’ll go 
wrong if you try to guess any more.” 

“Then I won’t guess any more. Take up the thread. 
It’s now the third night out, and the moon is shining 
like that.” I pointed to the orb which was illuminating 
the Major’s garden — among other places where sun¬ 
dry" of that liner’s former passengers might chance 
to be. 

“I’ll go on,” she said, “and don’t interrupt me for a 
little while. There was a very light wind — you hardly 
felt it aft — and I was standing looking over the sea. 
He came up to me and began to talk about some trifle 
— I forget what it was, but it doesn’t matter. But I was 
afraid mama would come up and look for me, so I said 
I was going down to read. But I waited for just a minute 
more — I suppose I expected him to ask me not to go. 

[ 168 ] 



SLIM-FINGERED JIM 

lie said nothing, but took one big pull at liis cigar, gave 
one big big pull of smoke out of his mouth and nose, 
and then threw the cigar overboard. ‘Good-night, Mr. 
Walsh,’ I said. He looked at me — it was as light as it 
is now — and said: ‘Will you give me one minute. Miss 
Cochrane ‘Well, only a minute,’ I said, smiling. I was 
really afraid about mama. ‘I want to tell you some¬ 
thing,’ he said. I wonder if I blushed — and whether he 
could see if I did. I expect I did, and that he saw, because 
he went on very quickly: ‘ Something that does not mat¬ 
ter much to you, but matters a bit to me.’ ‘Go on,’ I said. 
I was quite calm again now, because — well, because I 
saw he was going to say something serious — I mean, 
not of the sort I — I had thought he might be going to 
say before.” 

“You saw he wasn’t making love to you, you mean ?” 

“I told you not to interrupt — but I daresay that’s 
putting it as nearly right as you can understand.” 

I murmured thanks for this rather contemptuous 
forgiveness. 

“Then he told me,” Mrs. Pryce went on, “just simply 
told me — and said he was going to make some excuse 
for asking the purser to put him at another table.” 

“But you can’t leave it like that!” I expostulated. 
“You’re throwing away all your dramatic effect. What 
did he say ? His words, his words, Mrs. Pryce!” 

“He didn’t use any — not in the sense you mean. He 
just told me. He didn’t even put me on my honor not to 

[ 159 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

tell anybody else. He said he didn’t care a hang about 
anybody else on board, but that he wanted to spare-me 
any possible shock, and that he’d been concerned in the 
bond robbery and would probably be arrested at Queens¬ 
town, but that he expected to get off this time. I think I 
repeated ‘ This time! ’ because I remember he said then 
that he was a thief by profession, and couldn’t expect 
good luck every time. That was like what he said yester¬ 
day, wasn’t it ?” 

“And what did you say ? It must have been a bad 
quarter of an hour for you. Because you’d liked him a 
good deal, hadn’t you 

“Yes, a lot. But” — she turned to me, smiling now — 
“it wasn’t bad at all, really.” 

She gave a little laugh — a laugh with pleasant remin¬ 
iscence in it. 

“You were a cool hand for your age,” I ventured to 
observe. 

“It was the way he did it,” she said. “Somehow I felt 
he was paying me a very high compliment. ” 

“Oh, I agree!” I laughed. 

“And one I was glad to have. It must have been the 
way he did it. There are some people who abolish one’s 
moral scruples, aren’t there ? He was very quiet gener¬ 
ally, but he had a way of just moving those hands of his 
with a little waving gesture. And when he said that of 
course it wasn’t right-” 

“Oh, he admitted that ?” 

[ 160 ] 



SLIM FINGERED JIM 

“Yes, but that little wave of those hands seemed to 
wave right and wrong right out of the way.” 

“Overboard ?” 

“Absolutely overboard. Then he looked at me a mo¬ 
ment and said: ‘ That’s all I had to say. Thanks for 
listening to me, Miss Cochrane. Good-night.’ ” 

“And what did you say ?” 

She rested her chin in her hand, looking sideways at me. 

“I said: ‘Good-night, Mr. Walsh. We meet at break¬ 
fast to-morrow as usual ? ’ ” 

“The deuce you did!” 

“‘At our table?’ he asked. And I said ‘Yes.’ He 
gave a little laugh, and so did I, and I held out my hand. 
He shook hands and left me, and I went down and read 
with mama.” 

“Nothing else said ?” 

“He said nothing else. I believe I whispered: ‘ It’ll 
be rather fun — because you will get off! ’ But I know I 
didn’t say anything more than that.” 

There was a pause. I lit another cigarette, snatching 
a mean advantage by stealing a look at my friend in 
the light of the match. She was not looking at me, but 
straight ahead of her: there was a pensive smile on her 
lips. 

“And what happened afterwards ?” I asked. 

“I suppose you’ll be shocked ?” 

“Being shocked is an emotion hostile to art — I never 
have it.” 


[ 161 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Well, then, I never had such fun. Of course we were 
careful because of mama (mama’s idea became 
funny, too!), and because we knew what was going to 
happen. But we managed to get no end of talks in quiet 
places — the library’s very good in fine weather — and 
he told me all sorts of wonderful things. It w^as like 
reading the very best detective stories, only ever so much 
better — so much more vivid, you know. ” 

“More personal interest ?” 

“A thousand times! And it was fun, too, at meals, 
and when there was a concert, and so on. I used to find 
him looking at me, with his eyes all full of laughter; and 
I looked back at him, enjoying the secret and the way 
he was making fools of all the rest. We were just like 
two children with some game that the grown-up people 
know nothing about.” 

“He had waved ’^our morality overboard with a ven¬ 
geance,” said I. 

“It was the joiliest time I ever had in my life,” said 
Mrs. Pryce. “He recited beautifully at the concert — 
‘The Ballad of Beau Brocade.’ ” 

“Well done him!” I said approvingly. I began rather 
to like the fellow myself. 

“And at the end he made a little speech, thanking the 
captain, and saying how sorry we should all be when 
the voyage ended. ‘And nobody sorrier than myself,’ 
he said, with one of his looks at me — such a twinkling 
look — and a tiny wave of those hands.” 

[ 162 ] 


SLIM-FINGERED JIM 

“He must have been the most popular man on 
board ?” 

“Well, the men thought him rather standoffish; he 
snubbed some of them, I think. Well, you do meet some 
queer men on a liner, don’t you ? And Mr. Walsh said 
that out of business hours he claimed to choose his 
acquaintance. But the women all worshiped him — 
not that he ran after them, but his manner was always 
just right to them.” 

“It’s really a pity his manner of life was so — well, so 
unconventional. ” 

“Yes, wasn’t it ?” she said, welcoming my sympathy. 
“Because, of course, it meant that our acquaintance 
had to end with the voyage.” 

I had, perhaps, been thinking of somewhat broader 
considerations, but I refrained from advancing them. 
In fact we had somehow got away from ordinary stan¬ 
dards and restraints; the memory of Slim-Fingered Jim 
had waved them away. We fell into silence for a moment 
or two, until I asked- 

“And the manner of the end ? Tell me that.” 

“I didn’t believe in the end. I had got not to believe 
in it at all. I thought we might go on sailing forever 
over that beautiful sea and having the most splendid fun. 
He could make you feel that everything was just splen¬ 
did fun — that there was nothing else in the world. 
He made me feel that — I suppose he knew he could, 
or he’d never have told me his secret at all. But, of 
[ 163 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

course, the end had to come.” She sighed and gave a 
little shiver — not that it was cold in the Major’s gar¬ 
den. Then she turned to me again. “I’ve told you a good 
deal,” she said, “and you’re not a chicken, are you ?” 

I ruefully admitted that I was no chicken. 

“Then I needn’t say anything more about myself,” 
said she. 

“And what about him ?” 

“I think he liked me tremendously; but he wasn’t in 
love.” 

“Not at all ?” 

“I don’t think so. He was just the most perfect of good 
comrades to me — and in that way the finest gentleman 
I’ve ever met. Because, you know, I can see now that I 
gave him opportunities of being something else. Well, 
I was only nineteen, and-” 

“Quite so. The hands, of course!” 

“It seems possible to be good and bad in — in com¬ 
partments, doesn’t it ? That’s rather curious!” 

“If true!” 

“ Oh, you know it’s true! ” 

“Perhaps I do; but I never contradict the preacher.” 

She laughed again, but now a trifle fretfully. 

“In his own business I believe he’s thoroughly bad.” 

“Not even the chivalrous highwayman 

“No. Just bad — bad — bad.” 

“Ah, well, business is one thing and charity another, 
as somebody once observed. And now for the end, 
[ 164 ] 



SLIM-FINGERED JIM 
please — because ends do come, even though we don’t 
believe in them.” 

“Yes, they do; and this one came,” she said. But for 
an instant or two she did not begin to tell me about it; 
and in the silence I heard Charlie Pryce assert loudly 
that he had made a good shot. 


1165 ] 


Chapter Three 


At lunch on Friday,” Mrs. Pryce resumed, “the 
/-% steward told us that we were expected to reach 
Queenstown about one o’clock in the morning, 
and we all began discussing whether we should sit up. 
The old travelers scoffed at the idea, and mama, 
though she wasn’t an old traveler, said she would never 
think of being so silly. But I and the two other girls at 
the table — they were Americans on their first trip 
over — said that we certainly should, and one of them 
asked Mr. Walsh if he meant to. ‘I must,’ he said, smil¬ 
ing. ‘In fact I expect to land there — that is, if I get the 
telegram I expect to get.’ Of course he glanced at me as 
he spoke, so that I knew what he meant, though the 
others hadn’t the least idea. What would they have 
said ?” 

“I suppose they did say they were very sorry he wasn’t 
going on to Liverpool ?” 

“Yes, and even mama said how sorry we were to 
part from him. Fancy.mama saying that! It was fun! 
Only after lunch she was terribly aggravating; she kept 
me down in the writing-room all the afternoon, writing 
letters for her to all sorts of stupid people in America 
[ 166 ] 


SLIM-FINGERED JIM 
and at home, saying we’d arrived safely. Of course we’d 
arrived safely! But if mama so much as crosses the 
Channel without sinking, she writes to all her friends 
as if she’d come back from the North Pole. Some people 
are like that, aren’t they ?” 

“Yes; and they’re generally considered attentive. 
You may get a great reputation for good manners by 
writing unnecessary letters.” 

“Yes. So I didn’t see him again till dinner. Nothing 
much happened then — at least, I don’t remember 
much. The end had begun, I think, and I wasn’t feeling 
so jolly as I had been all the way across. But everybody 
else was in high spirits, and he was the gayest of all of 
us. I expect he saw that I was rather blue, and he fol¬ 
lowed me on deck soon after dinner, and there we had 
our last little talk. He told me that he thought every¬ 
thing would be done quite quietly; he meant to tell the 
purser where to find him in case of inquiry, and to be 
ready to go ashore at once. He was sure they’d take him 
ashore; but if by chance they didn’t, he would stay in his 
cabin, so that, anyhow, this was ‘ Good-by.’ So I said 
‘Good-by’ and wished him good luck. ‘Are you going to 
sit up ?’ he said. I looked at him for a moment and then 
said ‘No.’ He smiled in an apologetic sort of way and 
gave that little wave of his hands. ‘ It’s foolish of me to 
care, I suppose, but — thank you for that.’ I was a little 
surprised, because I really hadn’t thought he would 
mind me seeing; but I was pleased too. He held out both 
[ 167 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

his hands, and I took them and pressed them. Then I 
opened my hands and looked at his as they lay there 
He was smiling at me with his lips and his eyes. ‘ Slim- 
Fingered Jim!’ he whispered. ‘Don’t quite forget him, 
little friend.’ ‘I suppose I shall never see you again ?’ 
I said. ‘Better not,’ he told me. ‘But let’s remember this 
voyage. We’ll put a little fence round it, won’t we ? and 
keep all the rest of life out, and just let this stand by it¬ 
self — on its own merits. Shall we, dear little friend ?’” 

Mrs. Pryce stayed her narrative for a moment. But 
my curiosity was merciless. 

“What did you say V’ I asked. 

“I don’t know. I think I murmured something like 
‘ Oh, my dear, my dear 1 ’ and then I let go of his hands 
and turned away to the sea; and when I looked round 
again, he was gone.” 

“And that was the end ?” 

“No. The end was lying in the berth above mama, 
who was sound asleep, and — well, snoring rather — 
lying there and feeling the ship slowing down and then 
stopping, and hearing the mail-boat come alongside, 
and all the noise and the shouting and the bustle. I 
knew I could hear nothing — there would be nothing 
to hear — but I couldn’t help listening. I listened very 
hard all the time, but of course I heard nothing; and at 
last — after hours and hours, as it seemed — we began 
to move again. That was the real end. I knew it had 
happened then; and so it had. He wasn’t at breakfast. 

[ 168 ] 


SLIM-FINGERED JIM 
But luckily nobody on the ship — none of the passen¬ 
gers, I mean — found out about it till we got to Liver¬ 
pool ; and as mama and I weren’t going on to London, 
it didn’t matter.” 

“x\nd he got off ?” 

“Yes, he got off — that time.” 

“I’m afraid this great man had one foible,” I ob¬ 
served. “He was proud of those hands! Well, Caesar 
liked getting bald, so I learned at school.” 

“I always remember them as they lay in mine,” she 
said. “His hands and his eyes — that’s what I remem¬ 
ber.” 

“Ever seen him again ?” 

“Of course not.” She sat where she was for a moment 
longer, then rose. “Shall we go in ?” 

“I think we may as well,” said I. 

So we went into the billiard-room. They were still 
playing pool. I made for the whisky-and-soda and 
mixed myself a tumbler and drank thereof. When I set 
the tumbler down and turned round to the table Charlie 
Pryce was engaged in making a shot of critical impor¬ 
tance. Everybody was looking at him. His wife was 
standing at the end of the table and looking at him too. 
She seemed as much interested in the shot as any of 
them. But was she ? For before he played she raised her 
eyes and looked across at me with a queer little smile. 
I couldn’t help returning it. I knew what she was think¬ 
ing. The billiard-table is a high trial. 

[ 169 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

When Charlie had brought off his shot — which he 
did triumphantly — his wife came and kissed him. 
This pleased him very much. He did not recognize the 
Kiss Penitential, which is, however, a well-ascertained 
variety. 

I’m afraid that the magnetic current of immorality 
which seemed to emanate from Mr. James Painter 
Walsh passed through the sympathetic medium of Mrs. 
Pryce’s memory and infected, in some small degree, 
my more hardened intellect; for even now I can’t help 
hoping that Slim-Fingered Jim is being put to some 
light form of labor. But it’s a difficult business! Even 
the laundry — a most coveted department, as I am 
given to understand — would spoil them hopelessly. 


[ 170 ] 


THE GRAY FROCK 


T he rights and wrongs of the matter are perhaps 
a little obscure, and it is possible to take his 
side as well as hers. Or perhaps there is really 
no question of sides at all — no need to condemn any¬ 
body; only another instance of the difficulty people have 
in understanding one another’s point of view. But here, 
with a few lines added by way of introduction, are the 
facts as related in her obviously candid and sincere 
narrative. 

Miss Winifred Petheram’s father had an income 
from landed estates of about five thousand a year, and 
spent, say, six or thereabouts; his manor house was old 
and beautiful, the gardens delightful, the stables hand¬ 
some and handsomely maintained, the housekeeping 
liberal, hospitable, almost lavish. Mr. Petheram had 
three sons and four daughters; but the sons were still 
young, and not the cause of any great expense. Mrs. 
Petheram was a quiet body, the two girls in the school¬ 
room were no serious matter; in fact, apart from the 
horses, Mildred and Winifred were, in a pecuniary point 
of view, the most serious burden on the family purse. 
[ 171 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

For both were pretty girls, gay and fond of society, 
given to paying frequent visits in town and country, 
and in consequence needing many frocks and a con¬ 
siderable supply of downright hard cash. But everybody 
was very comfortable; only it was understood that at a 
period generally referred to as “some day” there would 
be very little for anybody except the eldest son. “Some¬ 
day,” meant, of course, when Mr. Petheram reluct¬ 
antly died, and thereby brought his family into less 
favorable worldly circumstances. 

From this brief summary of the family’s position the 
duty of Mildred and Winifred (and, in due course of 
time, of the two girls in the schoolroom also) stands 
forth salient and unmistakable. Mildred performed it 
promptly at the age of nineteen years. He was the second 
son of a baronet, and his elder brother was sickly and 
unmarried; but, like a wise young man, he took no 
chances, went on the Stock Exchange, and became 
exceedingly well-to-do in an exceedingly brief space of 
time — something, in fact, “came off” in South Africa, 
and when that happens ordinary limits of time and 
probability are suspended. So with Mildred all was very 
well; and it was odds that one of the boys would be pro¬ 
vided for by his brother-in-law. Winifred had just as 
good chances — nay, better; for her sensitive face and 
wondering eyes had an attraction that Mildred’s self- 
possessed good looks could not exert. But Winifred 
shilly-shallied (it was her father’s confidential after- 

[m] 


THE GRAY FROCK 
dinner word) till she was twenty-one, then refused Sir 
Barton Amesbury (in itself a step of doubtful sanity, as 
was generally observed), and engaged herself to Harold 
Jackson, who made two hundred a year and had no 
prospects except the doubtful one of maintaining his 
income at that level — unless, that is, he turned out a 
genius, when it was even betting whether a mansion or 
the workhouse awaited him; for that depends on the 
variety of genius. Having taken this amazing course, 
Winifred was resolute and radiantly happy; her rela¬ 
tives, after the necessary amount of argument, shrugged 
their shoulders — the very inadequate ultima ratio to 
which a softening civilization seems to have reduced 
relatives in such cases. 

“I can manage two hundred a year for her while I 
live,” said Mr. Petheram, wiping his brow and then 
dusting his boots; he was just back from his ride. 
‘‘After that-” 

“The insurance, my dear ?” Mrs. Petheram suggested. 
But her husband shook his head; that little discrepancy 
above noted, between five and six thousand a year, had 
before this caused the insurance to be a very badly 
broken reed. 

Harold Jackson — for in him the explanation of 
Winifred’s action must be sought,— was tall, good- 
looking, ready of speech, and decidedly agreeable. 
There was no aggressiveness about him, and his quiet 
manners repelled any suspicion of bumptiousness. But 
[ 173 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

it cannot oe denied that to him Winifred’s action did 
not seem extraordinary; he himself accounted for this 
by saying that she, like himself, was an Idealist, the 
boys by saying that he was “stuck-up,” Mr. Petheram 
by a fretful exclamation that in all worldly matters he 
was as blind as a new-born puppy. Whatever the truth 
of these respective theories, he was as convinced that 
Winifred had chosen for her own happiness as that she 
had given him his. And in this she mo‘st fully agreed. 
Of course, then, all the shrugging of shoulders in the 
universe could not effect the radiant contentment of the 
lovers, nor could it avert the swift passage of months 
which soon brought the wedding-day in sight, and made 
preparations for it urgent and indispensable. 

Married couples, even though they have only a pre¬ 
carious four hundred a year, must live somewhere — no 
idealism is independent of a roof; on the contrary, it 
centers round the home, so Harold said, and the word 
“home” seemed already sacred to Winifred as her glance 
answered his. It was the happiest day of her life when 
she put on her dainty new costume of delicate gray, 
took her parasol and gloves, matched to a shade with her 
gown, and mounted into the smart dog-cart which 
Jennie, the new chestnut mare, was to draw to the sta¬ 
tion. A letter had come from Harold to say that, after 
long search, he had found a house which would suit 
them, and was only just a trifle more expensive than the 
maximum sum they had decided to give for rent. Wini- 
[ 174 ] 


THE GRAY FROCK 
fred knew that the delicate gray became her well, and 
that Harold would think her looking very pretty; and 
she was going to see her home and his. Her face was 
bright as she kissed her father and jumped down from 
the dog-cart; but he sighed when she had left him, and 
his brow was wrinkled as he drove Jennie back. He 
felt himself growing rather old; “some day” did not seem 
quite as remote as it used, and pretty Winnie — well, 
there was no use in crying over it now. Wilful girls must 
have their way; and it was not his fault that con¬ 
founded agitators had played the deuce with the landed 
interest. The matter passed from his thoughts as he 
began to notice how satisfactorily Jennie moved. 

Winifred’s lover met her in London, and found her 
eyes still bright from the reveries of her journey. To¬ 
day was a gala day — they drove off in a hansom to a 
smart restaurant in Piccadilly, joking about their extrav¬ 
agance. Everything was perfect to Winifred, except (a 
small exception, surely!) that Harold failed to praise, 
seemed almost not to notice, the gray costume; it must 
have been that he looked at her face only! 

“It’s not a large house, you know,” he said at lunch, 
smiling at her over a glass of Grave^. 

“Well, I sha’h’t be wanting to get away from you,” 
she answered, smiling. “Not very far, Harold!” 

“Are your people still abusing me ?” 

He put the question with a laugh. 

“They never abused you, only me.” Then came 
175 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

the irrepressible question: “Do you like my new 
frock ? I put it on on purpose — for ‘the house, you 
know.” 

“Our home!” ne murmured, rather sentimentally, it 
must be confessed. The question about the frock he did 
not answer; he was thinking of the home. Winifred was 
momentarily grateful to a stout lady at the next table, 
who put up her glass, looked at the frock, and with a nod 
of approval called her companion’s attention to H. This 
was while Harold paid the bill. 

Then they took another cab, and headed north — 
through Berkeley Square, where Winifred would have 
liked, but did not expect, to stop, and so up to Oxford 
Street. Here they bore* considerably to the east, then 
plunged north agg^in and drove through one or two long 
streets. Harold, who had made the journey before, paid 
no heed to the route, but talked freely of delightful hours 
which they were to enjoy together, of books to read and 
thoughts to think, and of an intimate sympathy which, 
near as they were already to one another, the home 
and the home life alone could enable them fully to real¬ 
ize. Winifred listened; but far down in her mind now 
was another question, hardly easier to stifle than that 
about the frock. “Where are we going to V’ would have 
been its naked form; but she yielded no more to her im¬ 
pulse than to look about her and ma^’k and wonder. 
At last they turned by a sharp twist from a long narrow 
street into a short narrower street, where a v^agon by 
[ 176 ] 


THE GRAY FROCK 
the curbstone forced the cab to a walk, and shrill boys 
were playing an unintelligible noisy game. 

“What queer places we pass through!” she cried with 
a laugh, as she laid her hand on his arm and turned her 
face to his. 

“Pass through! We’re at home,” he answered, return¬ 
ing her laugh. “At home, Winnie!” He pointed at a 
house on the right-hand side, and, immediately after, 
the cab stopped. Winifred got out, holding her skirt 
back from contact with the wheel. Harold, in his eager¬ 
ness to ring the door-bell, had forgotten to render her 
this service. She stood on the pavement for a moment 
looking about her. One of the boys cried: “Crikey, 
there’s a swell!” and she liked the boy for it. Then she 
turned to the house. 

“It wants a lick of paint,” said Harold cheerfully, as 
he rang the bell again. 

“It certainly does,” she admitted, looking up at the 
dirty walls. 

An old woman opened the door; she might be said, 
by way of metaphor, to need the same process as the 
walls; a very narrow passage was disclosed behind her. 

“Welcome!” said Harold, giving Winifred his hand 
and then presenting her to the old woman. “This is 
my future wife,” he explained. “We’ve come to look 
at the house. But we won’t bother you, Mrs. Blidgett, 
we’d rather run over it by ourselves. We shall enjoy that, 
sha’n’t we, Winnie ?” 


[ 177 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Winnie’s answer was a little scream and a hasty clutch 
at her gown; a pail of dirty water, standing in the pas¬ 
sage, had threatened ruin; she recoiled violently from 
this peril against the opposite wall and drew away again, 
silently exhibiting a long trail of dark dust on her new 
gray frock. Harold laughed as he led the way into a small 
square room that opened from the passage. 

“That’s the parlor,” said the’old woman, wiping her 
arms with her apron. “You can find your way up-stairs; 
nothing’s locked.” And with this remark she withdrew 
by a steep staircase leading underground. 

“She’s the caretaker,” Harold explained. 

“She doesn’t seem to have taken much care,” ob¬ 
served Winifred, still indignant about her gown and 
holding it round her as closely as drapery clings to an 
antique statue. 

Miss Petheram’s account of the house, its actual 
dimensions, accommodation, and characteristics, has 
always been very vague, and since she refused informa¬ 
tion as to its number in the street, verification of these 
details has remained impossible. Perhaps it was a rea¬ 
sonably capacious, although doubtless not extensive, 
dwelling; perhaps, again, it was a confined and well- 
nigh stifling den. She remembered two things — first, 
its all-pervading dirt; secondly, the remarkable quality 
which (as she alleged) distinguished its atmosphere. 
She thought there were seven “inclosures,” this term 
being arrived at (after discussion) as a compromise 
[ 178 ] 


THE GRAY FROCK 
between “rooms” and “pens”; and she knew that the 
windows of each of these inclosures were commanded 
by the windows of several other apparently similar and 
very neighboring inclosures. Beyond this she could 
give no account of her first half-hour in the house; her 
exact recollection began when she was left alone in the 
inclosure on the first fioor, which Harold asserted to be 
the drawing-room, Harold himself having gone down¬ 
stairs to seek the old woman and elicit from her some 
information as to what were and what were not tenant’s 
fixtures in the said inclosure. “You can look about 
you,” he remarked cheerfully, as he left her, “and make 
up your mind where you’re going to have your favorite 
seat. Then you shall tell me, and I shall have the pic¬ 
ture of you sitting there in my mind.” He pointed to a 
wooden chair, the only one then in the room. “Experi¬ 
ment with that chair,” he added, laughing. “I won’t be 
long, darling.” 

Mechanically, without considering things which she 
obviously ought to have considered, Winifred sank into 
the designated seat, laid her parasol on a small table, 
and leaned her elbows on the same piece of furniture as 
she held her face between her gloved hands. The atmos¬ 
phere again asserted its peculiar quality; she rose for 
a moment and opened the window; fresh air was gained 
at the expense of spoilt gloves, and was weighted with 
the drawbacks of a baby’s cries and an inquisitive 
woman’s stare from over the way. Shutting the window 
[ 179 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

again, she returned to her chair — the symbol of wliat 
was to be her favorite seat in days to come, her chosen 
corner in the house which had been the subject of so 
many talks and so many dreams. There were a great 
many flies in the room; the noise of adjacent humanity 
in street and houses was miscellaneous and penetrat¬ 
ing; the air was very close. And this house was rather 
more expensive than their calculations had allowed. 
They had immensely enjoyed making those calculations 
down there in the country, under the old yew hedge and 
in sight of the flower-beds beneath the library window. 
She remembered the day they did it. There was a cricket 
match in the meadow. Mildred and her husband brought 
the drag over, and Sir Barton came in his tandem. It 
was almost too hot in the sun, but simply delightful in 
the shade. She and Harold had had great fun over map¬ 
ping out their four hundred a year and proving how much 
might be done with it — at least compared with any¬ 
thing they could want when once they had the great 
thing that they wanted. 

The vision vanished; she was back in the dirty little 
room again; she caught up her parasol; a streak across 
the dust marked where it had lain on the table; she 
sprang up and twisted her frock round, craning her neck 
back; ah, that she had reconnoitered that chair! She 
looked at her gloves; then with a cry of horror she dived 
for her handkerchief, put it to her lips, and scrubbed 
her cheeks; the handkerchief came away soiled, dingy, 
[ 180 ] 


THE GRAY FROCK 
almost black. This last outrage overcame her; the para¬ 
sol dropped on the floor, she rested her arms on the table 
and laid her face on them, and she burst into sobs, just 
as she used to in childhood when her brothers crumpled 
a clean frock or somebody spoke to her roughly. And 
between her sobs she cried, almost loudly, very bitterly: 
“Oh, it’s too mean and dirty and horrid!” 

Harold had stolen softly up-stairs, meaning to surprise 
the girl he loved, perhaps to let a snatched kiss be her 
first knowledge of his return. He flushed red, and his 
lips set sternly; he walked across the room to her with a 
heavy tread. She looked up, saw him, and knew that her 
exclamation had been overheard. 

“What in the world is the matter ?” he asked in a 
tone of cold surprise. 

It was very absurd — she couldn’t stop crying; and 
from amid her weeping nothing more reasonable, no¬ 
thing more adequate, nothing less trivial would come 
than confused murmurs of “My frock, Harold!” “My 
parasol!” “Oh, my face, my gloves!” He smiled con¬ 
temptuously. “Don’t you see ?” she exclaimed, exhibit¬ 
ing the gloves and parasol. 

“See what ? Are you crying because the room’s 
dirty ?” He paused and then added, “I’m sorry you 
think it mean and horrid. Very sorry, Winifred.” 

Offense was deep and bitter in his voice; he looked 
at her with a sort of disgust; she stopped sobbing and 
regarded him with a gaze in which fright and expecta- 
[ 181 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

tion seemed mingled, as though there were a great peril, 
and just one thing that might narrowly avert it. But 
his eyes were very hard. She dried her tears, and then 
forlornly scrubbed her cheeks again. He watched her 
with hostile curiosity, appearing to think her a very 
strange spectacle. Presently he spoke. “I thought you 
loved me. Oh, I daresay you thought so too till I came 
into competition with your new frock. I beg pardon — I 
'must add your gloves and your parasol. As for the house, 
it’s no doubt mean and horrid; we were going to be poor, 
you see.” He laughed scornfully, as he added, “You 
might even have had to do a little dusting yourself now 
and then! Horrible!” 

“I just sat there and looked at him.” That was Wini¬ 
fred’s own account of her behavior. It is not very ex¬ 
plicit and leaves room for much conjecture as to what 
her look said or tried to say. But whatever the message 
was he did not read it. He was engrossed in his own 
indignation, readier to hurt than to understand, full of 
his own wrong, of the mistake he had made, of her extra¬ 
ordinary want of love, of courage, of the high soul. 
Very likely all this was a natural enough state of mind 
for him to be in. Justice admits his provocation; the 
triviality of her spoken excuses gave his anger only too 
fine an opportunity. He easily persuaded himself that 
here was a revelation of the real woman, a flash of light 
that showed her true nature, showing, too, the folly of 
his delusion about her. Against all this her look and 
[ 182 ] 


THE GRAY FROCK 
what it asked for had very little chance, and she could 
find no words that did not aggravate her offense. 

“This is really rather a ludicrous scene,he went on. 
“Is there any use in prolonging it He waited for her 
to speak, but she was still tongue-tied. “The caretaker 
needn’t be distressed by seeing the awful effects of her 
omission to dust the room; but, if you’re composed 
enough, we might as well go.” He looked round the 
room. “You’ll be glad to be out of this,” he ended. 

“I know what you must think of me,” she^burst out, 
“but — but you don’t understand — you don’t see-” 

“No doubt I’m stupid, but I confess I don’t. At least 
there’s only one thing I see.” He bowed and waved his 
hand toward the door. “Shall we go ?” he asked. 

She led the way down-stairs, her skirt again held close 
and raised clear of her ankles; her care for it was not 
lost on Harold as he followed her, for she heard him 
laugh again with an obtrusive bitterness that made his 
mirth a taunt. The old caretaker waited for them in the 
passage. 

“When’ll you be coming, sir ?” she asked. 

“I don’t know. It’s not certain we shall come,” said 
he. “The lady is not much taken with the house.” 

“Ah, well!” sighed the old woman resignedly. 

For an account of their drive back to the station 
materials are, again, sadly wanting. “He hardly said a 
word, and I did nothing but try to get my face clean 
and my gloves presentable,” was Winifred’s history of 
[ 183 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

their journey. But she remembered — or chose to relate 
— a little more of what passed while they waited for the 
train on the platform at Euston. He left her for a few 
minutes on pretext of smoking a cigarette, and she saw 
him walking up and down, apparently in thought. Then 
he came back and sat down beside her. His manner was 
grave now; to judge by his recorded words, perhaps it 
was even a little pompous; but when may young men be 
pompous, if not at such crises as these ? 

“It’s no use pretending that nothing has happened, 
Winifred,” he said. “That, would be the hollowest pre¬ 
tense, not worthy, I think, of either of us. Perhaps we 
had better take time to consider our course and — er — 
our relations to one another.” 

“You don’t want to marry me now ?” she asked simply. 

“I want to do what is best for our happiness,” he 
replied. “We cannot forget what has happened to-day.” 

“I know you would never forget it,” she said. 

He did not contradict her; he looked first at his watch, 
then along the platform for the approach of her train. 
To admit that he might forget it was impossible to him; 
in such a case forgetfulness would be a negation of his 
principles and a slur on his perception. It would also be 
such a triumph over his vanity and his pride as it did not 
lie in him to achieve, such a forgiveness as his faults 
and virtues combined to put beyond the power of his 
nature. She looked at him; and “I smiled,” she said, 
not seeming herself to know why she had smiled, but 
[ 184 ] 


THE GRAY FROCK 
conscious that, in the midst of her woe, some subtly 
amusing thought about him had come into her mind. 
She had never been amused at him before; so she, too, 
was getting some glimmer of a revelation out of the day’s 
experience — not the awful blaze of light that had 
flashed on Harold’s eyes, but a dim ray, just enough to 
give cause to that puzzled smile for which she could not 
explicitly account. 

So they parted, and for persons who have followed 
the affair at all closely it is hardly necessary to add that 
they never came together again. This issue was obvious, 
and Winifred seems to have made up her mind to it that 
very same evening, for she called her mother into her 
room (as the good lady passed on the way to bed) and 
looked up from the task of brushing the gray frock 
which she had spread out on the sofa. 

“I don’t think I shall marry Mr. Jackson now, 
mother,” she said. 

Mrs. Petheram looked at her daughter and at her 
daughter’s gown. 

“You’d better tell me more about it to-morrow. You 
look tired to night, dear,” she replied. 

But Winifred never told her any more — in the first 
place, because the family was too delighted with the 
fact to care one straw about how it had come to pass, 
and, in the second place, on the more important ground 
that the thing was really too small, too trivial, and too 
absurd to bear telling — at least to the family. To me, 
[ 185 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

for some reason or other, Winifred did tell it, or some of 
it—enough, anyhow, to enable me, with the help of a few 
touches of imagination, to conjecture how it occurred. 

“Don’t you think it was very absurd ?” she asked at 
the end of her story. We were sitting by the yew hedge, 
near the library windows, looliing across the flower-beds 
to the meadow; it was a beautiful day, and the old place 
was charming. “Because,” she added, “I did love him, 
you know; and it seems a small thing to separate about, 
doesn’t it ?” 

“If he had behaved differently —” I began. 

“I don’t see how he could be expected to,” she mur¬ 
mured. 

“You expected him to,” I said firmly. She turned to me 
with an appearance of interest, as though I might be 
able to interpret to her something that had been causing 
her puzzle. “Or you wouldn’t have looked at him as you 
say you did — or smiled at him, as you admit you did. 
But you were wrong to expect him to, because he’s not 
that kind of man.” 

“What kind of man ?” 

“The kind of man to catch you in his arms, smother 
you in kisses (allow me the old phrase), tell you that he 
understood all you felt, knew all you were giving up, 
realized the great thing you were doing for him.” 

Winifred was listening. I went on with my imaginary 
scene of romantic fervor: 

“That when he contrasted that mean little place with 

[ 186 ] 


THE GRAY FROCK 
the beauties you were accustomed to, with the oeauties 
which were right and proper for you, when he saw your 
daintiness soiled by that dust, that gown whose hem he 
would willingly-” 

“He needn’t say quite as much as that,” interrupted 
Winifred, smiling a little. 

“Well, or words to that effect,” said I. “That when , 
he did all this and saw all this, you know, he loved you 
more, and knew that you loved him more than he had 
dared to dream, with a deeper love, a love that gave up 
for him all that you loved next best and second only to 
him; that after seeing your tears he would never doubt 
again that you would face all trials and all troubles with 
him at your side — don’t you think if he’d said some¬ 
thing of that kind, accompanying his words with the 
appropriate actions—” I paused. 

“Well ?” asked Winifred. 

“Don’t you think you might have been living in that 
horrid little house now, instead of being about to con¬ 
tract an alliance with Sir Barton Amesbury ?” 

“How do you know I shall do that ?” she cried. 

“It needs,” I observed modestly, “little skill to dis¬ 
cern the approach of the inevitable.” I looked at her 
thoughtful face and at her eyes; they had their old look 
of wondering in them. “Don’t you think that if he’d 
treated the situation in that way — ?” I asked. 

“Perhaps,” she said softly. “But he wouldn’t think 
of all that. He was such an Idealist.” 

[ 187 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

I really do not know why she applied that term to him 
at that moment, except that he used to apply it to him¬ 
self at many moments. But since it seemed to her to 
explain his conduct, there is no need to quarrel with the 
epithet. 

“And I hope,” said I, “that the gray frock wasn’t 
irretrievably ruined ?” 

“I’ve never worn it again,” she murmured. 

So I suppose it was ruined — unless she has some 
other reason. But she would be right to treat it differ¬ 
ently from other frocks; it must mean a good deal to her, 
although it failed to mean anything except its own 
pretty self to Mr. Jackson. 


[ 188 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


‘ ‘ TT DON’T say,” observed the Colonel, “that limited 
I liability companies haven’t great advantages. 

In fact I’m a director myself — it’s a big groc¬ 
ery — and draw three hundred a year — a very wel¬ 
come addition to my half-pay — and, for all I know, 
I may supply some of you fellows with your morning 
bacon. If I do, it just exemplifies the point I was about 
to make; which is this — When it comes to limited com 
panics, you never know who anybody is. I could tell you 
a little story to illustrate that; it’s rather a sad one, 
though.” 

The club smoking-room was cheerfully lighted, the 
fire burned brightly, we each had a cigar and a drink. 
We intimated to the Colonel that we felt in a position 
to endure a touch of tragedy. 

“It’s some years ago now,” he said, “but it affected 
me considerably at the time. Do any of you go to Stretch- 
ley’s for your clothes 

Three of us shook our heads wistfully. The fourth — 
a young man, and a new member, whom none of us 
knew, but who had a legal look about him and wore 
[ 189 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

admirable trousers of a delicate gray — answered the 
Colonel’s question in the affirmative. 

“If I may say so, you and Stretchley do one another 
credit, sir,” said the Colonel, with an approving glance 
at the new member’s trousers. “And I needn’t tell you 
that Stretchley’s have few equals — and no superiors. 
When you say Stretchley’s, you say everything. I have 
never gone to them myself: partly because I couldn’t 
afford it, more perhaps from motives of delicacy — from 
consideration for poor George Langhorn’s feelings. 
He has always preferred not to act professionally for his 
personal friends, even though he lost money in conse¬ 
quence.” 

“How does George Langhorn come in ?” I ventured 
to ask. 

“He is Stretchley’s, to all intents and purposes. It’s 
a small family company. The business was founded by 
George’s maternal grandfather, and carried to greatness 
by his mother’s brother, Fred Stretchley, whom I used 
to see at Brighton years ago. Fred made it into a com¬ 
pany, but of course kept the -bulk of the shares to him¬ 
self, besides the entire control; and when he died he 1 ‘‘t 
all he had to George, on condition — mark you, on con¬ 
dition — that George remained in the business, and in 
active control of it. He did that because he knew that 
George hated it, and, at the same b* ^e, had a wonder¬ 
ful turn for it.” 

“Rather odd, that!” the new member obser/ed. 

[ 190 ] 


FOREORDAINED 

“I don’t think so, sir,” said the Colonel. “He had a 
knack for it, because it was in his blood; and he hated 
it, because he’d had it crammed down his throat all his 
life. He’d been right through the mill from a boy; the 
only holiday he’d ever had from it was a year at Bonn 
— and that was to learn German, with a view to busi¬ 
ness. It was at Bonn that I became acquainted with him, 
and a very nice fellow he was — quite a gentleman, and 
extremely well-informed. We became great friends. His 
only fault was his exaggerated dislike of his own occu¬ 
pation. On that subject he was morbid — and, I’m 
afraid I must add, a trifle snobbish. All the same, he was 
unmistakably proud of Stretchley’s. He was quite alive 
to the fact that, if he had to be a tailor, it was a fine 
thing to be Stretchley’s, and in moments of confidence 
he would thank Heaven that he hadn’t been born in the 
ready-made line ’— ‘reach-me-downs,’ he called it. 
‘It might have been worse,’ he would say manfully. At 
those times I felt a great respect for him.” 

“They do know how to make a pair of breeches,” 
murmured the new member, regarding his own legs with 
pensive satisfaction. 

“Nobody better, nobody better,” the Colonel agreed, 
with a solemn cordiality — and we all looked at the new 
member’s legs for some moments. “Well, as I was say¬ 
ing,” the Colonel then resumed, “George Langhorn and 
I became real friends; but I was abroad on service for 
two or three years after he came back from Bonn and 
[ 191 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

got into harness in Savile Row, and so I lost sight of him 
for a bit. But after I’d been home a few months, I was 
passing through town on my way to the Riviera, on six 
weeks’ leave, and I dropped in at his place and saw him. 
I found him in a sad way — very depressed and down in 
the mouth, railing against the business, utterly sick of it. 
He told me he couldn’t endure the sight of a frock-coat, 
and spent all his time at home in pajamas and a dressing- 
gown — just because those were po'rtions of apparel not 
supplied by Stretchley’s. Morbid, of course, but sad, 
very sad! It looked to me as if he was on the verge of a 
breakdown, and I took a strong line with him. I told him 
that he owed it to himself to take a complete holiday — 
to get right away from the shop for a bit, to forget all 
about it, to put plenty of money in his pocket, and give 
himself a real holiday — he told me he hadn’t taken 
more than a week here and there for two years. I said: 
‘I’m just off to Monte Carlo. You come with me. Sink 
the shop — dismiss it from your mind — and come 
along.’ Well, he saw how wise I was, made his arrange¬ 
ments, and joined me at Charing Cross three days later. 
Off we went, and a very good time we had of it. George 
was a handsome young fellow of four or five and twenty, 
with lots to say for himself, and a very taking way with 
women. Nobody knew who he was, but I and my friends 
gave him a good start, and he could take care of the rest 
for himself. In point of fact I received a great many 
compliments on the good taste I showed in choosing my 
[ 192 ] 


FOREORDAINED 

traveling companion. All, yes, we bad very good fun!” 
The Colonel leaned back in his chair for a moment, with 
a smile of pleasant — possibly of roguish — reminiscence. 

“No signs of the tragedy yet. Colonel,” said I. 

“Wait a bit; I’m just coming to it. When we’d been 
tliere about a fortnight, a young lady appeared on the 
scene. She was one of the prettiest creatures I ever saw 
— and I’ve seen some in my day — and as merry as she 
was pretty. Besides that, she was evidently uncommonly 
well off; she traveled with a companion, a maid, and a 
toy-poodle, and threw away her money at the tables as 
if she were made of it. I needn’t tell you that such a girl 
didn’t want for attentions at Monte Carlo, of all places 
in the world. The fortune-hunters were hot on her track, 
besides all the young fellows who were genuinely smitten 
with her. If I’d been ten years younger, I’d have had a 
shot myself. But it wouldn’t have been any use. From 
the very first George was the favorite, just as from the 
first George had been drawn to her. There seemed really 
to be what they call an affinity between them. I never 
saw an affair go so quickly or so prosperously. Yes, there 
seemed to be an affinity. George was carried right off his 
feet, and I was intensely pleased to see it. He wasn’t 
thinking of Stretchley’s now, and he was putting on 
weight every day 1 My treatment was being a brilliant 
success, and I didn’t mind admitting that more than 
half the credit was due to ' retty Miss Minnie Welford — 
that was her name. 


[ 193 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“I was only waiting to hear the happy news when 
one morning George came down looking decidedly pale 
and with a face as long as your arm. I made sure he’d 
received a telegram calling him back to Savile Row. 
But it wasn’t that. This was it. In conversation, in the 
garden of the Casino the evening before, somebody had 
begun talking about mesalliances and that sort of thing. 
One took one side, and one another — the people who 
had nothing in particular to boast about in the family 
way being the loudest in declaring they’d never make a 
low marriage, as they generally are. Minnie, who was 
sitting next George, took the high romantic line. She 
said that if she loved a man (George told me she blushed 
adorably as she said this — you can believe that or not, 
as you like) neither family nor fortune would weigh for 
a minute with her. That made George happy, as you can 
imagine. Then some fellow said: ‘You’d marry the 
chimney-sweep, would you. Miss Welford?’ ‘Yes, if I 
loved him,’ says she. ‘Absolutely nobody barred?’ the 
man asked, laughing. She blushed again (or so George 
said) and laughed a little and said: ‘Well, just one — 
just one class of man; but I won’t tell you which it is.’ 
And no more she would, though they all tried to guess, 
and chaffed her, and worried her to tell. When the talk 
had drifted off to something else, George seized his 
opportunity — he told me he had a horrid sort of pre¬ 
sentiment— and whispered in her ear: ‘Tell me!’ She 
looked at him with eyes full of fun and said: ‘Well, I’ll 
[ 194 ] 


FOREORDAINED 

tell you; but it’s a secret. Swear to keep it!’ George 
swore to keep it, and then she leaned over to him, put her 
lips close to his ear, and whispered — Well, of course, 
you’ve guessed what she whispered ?” 

“Tailors!” said the new member in a reflective tone. 

“Yes, ‘tailors, said the Colonel mournfully. “She 
just whispered ‘Tailors!’ and ran off with a merry 
glance (so George said) — a merry glance. And he 
hadn’t had a wink of sleep all night, and came to tell 
me the first thing in the morning. I never saw a man so 
broken up.” 

“Had she found out about him ?” I asked. 

“No, no, sir; not a hint — not an idea. You’ll see later 
on that she couldn’t have had the least idea. But there 
it was — tailors! And what the dickens was poor George 
Langhorn to do ? He took one view, I urged the other. 
His was the high-flying line. He must tell her the whole 
truth before he breathed so much as a word of love to 
her! Fatal, of course, but he said it was the only line an 
honorable man could take. I denied that. I said: ‘Tell 
her you love her first. Get her consent — because you 
will get it. Let the matter rest for a week or two — let her 
lore grow, let the thing become fully settled and ac¬ 
cepted, so that to break it off would cause talk and so on. 
Then, when it’s all settled, jus-t casually observe, in a 
laughing kind of way, that you’re sorry she has a preju¬ 
dice against a certain estimable occupation, because 
you happen to be indirectly connected with it.’ Machia- 
[ 195 ] 


LOVERS LOGIC 

vellian, you’ll say, no doubt; but effective, very effective! 
‘Indirectly connected’ I consider was justifiable. Yes, 
I do. I am, as I said a little while ago, a director of a 
grocery business, but I don’t consider myself directly — 
hot directly — connected with lard and sugar. No, I 
didn’t go beyond the limits of honor, though possibly I 
^skirted them. In helping one’s friends, one does. How- 
'ever, George wouldn’t have it, and at last I had to be 
‘content with a compromise. He wasn’t to speak of the 
business before he spoke of love, nor to speak of love 
before he spoke of the business. He was to speak of 
them both at once. That was what we decided. 

“Rather difficult,” commented the new member, with 
that reflective smile which I began to recognize as hab¬ 
itual. 

“Pray, sir, would you expect such a thing to be easy ?” 
demanded the Colonel, with an approach to warmth. 
“We did the best we could, sir, under exceptionally awk¬ 
ward and delicate circumstances.” The Colonel leaned 
back again and took a sip of barley-water. That is his 
tipple. 

We all waited in silence for the Colonel to resume his 
narrative. I remember that, owing perhaps to the asso¬ 
ciations of the subject, my regard was fixed on the new 
member’s gray trousers, to which he himself continued 
to pay a thoughtful attention. The Colonel took up the 
tale again in impressive tones. 

“It has been my lot,” he said, “to witness many in- 
[ 196 ] 


FOREORDAINED 

•stances of the perverse working of what we call fate or 
destiny, and of the cruel freaks which it l)lays with us 
poor human creatures. I may mention, just in passing, 
the case of my old friend Major Vincent, who, himself 
a vegetarian, married a woman whom he subsequently 
discovered to be constitutionally unable so much as to 
sit in the same room with a cabbage. But neither that 
case nor any other within my experience equals the 
story which I am now telling you. You will agree with 
me when you hear the denoument, which is of a nature 
impossible for any of you to anticipate.” 

“I think I know it,” observed the new member. 

^‘It’s impossible that you should, sir,” said the Colonel 
firmly, though courteously: “and when you have heard 
me out, you yourself will be the first to admit as much. 
Where was I ? Ah, I remember. Well, George Langhorn 
left me in the condition which I have attempted to des¬ 
cribe, and with the understanding which I have men¬ 
tioned. How, precisely, he carried out that under¬ 
standing, I am, of course, unable to say, as his interview 
with Miss Welford was naturally a private one, and he 
never volunteered any detailed account of it, while it 
would have been absolute cruelty to press him on the 
subject; for if his state of mind was lamentable when he 
left me, it was as nothing to the dismay and horror which 
held possession of him on his return some two hours 
later. He rushed into my room really like a man dis¬ 
traught — I am in the habit of measuring my words, 
[ 197 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

and I don’t use that one unadvisedly — plumped him¬ 
self down on my sofa, and ejaculated: ‘Merciful heav¬ 
ens, she owns half the Sky-high! ’ ” 

At this climax — for such his manner obviously in¬ 
dicated it to be — the Colonel looked round on us in 
somber triumph. We were all gravely attentive (except 
the new member, who still smiled), and the Colonel 
continued, well satisfied with the effect which he had 
produced. 

“There’s fate for you, if you like!” he exclaimed, with 
uplifted forefinger. “There’s the impossibility of evading 
destiny or escaping from a foreordained environment! 
Out of all the girls in the world, George had fixed his 
affections on that particular one; he had gone straight 
to her, as it were; and, for my part, I can’t doubt that 
the very thing he hated, and she hated too, had, all the 
same, served in some mysterious way to bring them 
together. And there was the situation! Not only was 
George, as a man, forbidden the escape which he had 
prayed for, but Stretchley’s was brought into contact 
with the ‘Sky-high Tailoring Company!’ No doubt you 
are all familiar with its advertisements — chubby boys 
in sailor-suits, square-legged little girls in velveteen, 
dress-suits at thirty-seven and sixpence! I need not 
enlarge on the subject; it’s distasteful. It is enough to 
say that any connection between Stretchley’s and the 
Sky-high was to George’s mind almost unthinkable. 
Observe, then, the curious and distressing psychologi- 
[ 198 ] 


FOREORDAINED 

cal situation. As a man, he hated Stretchley’s; as Stretch- 
ley's, he loathed and despised the Sky-high. His love —■ 
his most unfortunate love — was in conflict at once with 
his personal feelings and with his professional pride. 
And what of her ? When he grew calmer, George entered 
on that subject with some fullness. She had suffered, 
exactly as he had, from the obsession of the family busi¬ 
ness, in the shadow of which she had been bred, to a 
half-share in which she had succeeded on her father’s 
death. In early days, before fortune came, she had even 
been dressed from the stock! Like George, she had 
looked to marriage for a complete change of life and 
associations. It was not to be. And, more than that, she 
was acutely conscious of what George must feel. Her 
training and the family atmosphere had not failed to 
teach her that. She knew only too well how Stretchley’s 
would feel toward the Sky-high. And George was 
Stretchley’s, and she was the Sky-high! One sometimes 
reads of mesalliances in the papers or meets them among 
one’s acquaintance. Never have I met one like this. 
The very fact of the occupation being in essence the 
same intensified the discrepancy and the contrast. Which, 
gentlemen, would surprise and, I may say, shock you 
more — that a duke should marry oil or soap, or that a 
really first-class purveyor should take his bride from a 
fried fish-shop ? No man of perception can hesitate. 
It is within the bounds of the same occupation that the 
greatest contrasts, the greatest distance, the greatest gulfs 
[ 199 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

of feeling are to be found. I value an otherwise painful 
experience because it exhibited that philosophic truth in 
so vivid and striking a manner. You would sooner ask 
the Commander-in-Chief to lend a hand with a wheel¬ 
barrow than propose to him to take command of a cor¬ 
poral’s guard. Your chef would no doubt put on the 
coals to oblige a lady, but not to oblige a thousand ladies 
would he wash the dishes!” 

“I daresay that’s all true,” I made bold to observe, 
“but, nevertheless, your pair of lovers seem to me rather 
ridiculous.” 

“Exactly, sir,” said the Colonel — and I was relieved 
that he took my interruption so well. “They would seem 
to you ridiculous. Probably the chef seems ridiculous 
too ? A man of another profession can’t have the feeling 
in its full intensity. It seems ridiculous 1 But think — 
doesn’t that very fact increase the tragedy ? To suffer 
from a feeling deep and painful, and to be aware that it 
is in the eyes of the world at large ridiculous — can you 
imagine anything more distressing ? ” 

“Your story illustrates more than one great truth, I 
perceive. Colonel.” 

“If it did not, sir, I should never have troubled you 
with it,” he answered with lofty courtesy. 

“And what happened ? Did love triumph over all ?” 

“I hesitate to describe the issue in those terms,” said 
he, with a slight frown. “They are conventional — de¬ 
signedly, no doubt — and I don’t think that they fit 
[ 200 ] 


FOREORDAINED 

tins particular case. George and Miss Welford were, 
beyond question, deeply attached to one another, and 
they got married in due course — nor am I aware tliat 
the marriage has turned out otherwise than well in the 
ordinary sense. Mrs. Langhorn is a very charming 
woman. But was it a triumph of love ? I look deeper, gen¬ 
tlemen. In my view love was but an instrument in the 
hands of Fate. The triumph was the triumph of Fate, 
and I am persuaded that, when they went to the altar, 
resignation to destiny was the most prominent feeling in 
the minds of both of them. That is why I said at the 
beginning that the story was rather a sad one. The very 
night before the wedding I found George poring over 
the Sky-high’s illustrated catalogue! What does that 
fact carry to your minds ?” 

“It looks bad,” I admitted, with a sigh. 

“It speaks volumes,” said the Colonel briefly, and he 
finished his barley-water. 

The new member flung the end of his cigar into the 
grate and rose to his feet. His face still wore the reflec¬ 
tive smile which had decorated it throughout the 
Colonel’s story. 

“And what,” I asked the Colonel, “are the present 
relations between Stretchley’s-and the Sky-high ?” 

“It would be curious to know,” he answered; “but as 
to that I have no information. I’ve never ventured to 
interrogate George Langhorn on the point.” 

“I think I can answer the question,” said the new 

[ 201 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

member, flicking an ash off his trousers. “The two com¬ 
panies were privately amalgamated last week. I drew 
the articles of association myself. Mr. Langhorn is to 
be chairman of the joint concern.” 

The Colonel might plausibly have resented a silence 
so long maintained as to border on deceit. He showed 
no anger. He nodded his head gravely, as though to say 
“Here is the Epilogue! Here is the Catastrophe com¬ 
plete!” 

“Stretchley’s and the Sky-high!” he murmured. 
“Poor George Langhorn! Poor George!” 

I went home to dinner really quite depressed. 


[ 202 ] 



PRUDENCE AND THE BISHOP 


ISS PRUDENCE was astonishingly pretty; it 



was far from tedious to lie on the bank of 
the stream and watch her, while her second 


brother — a lanky youth of fifteen — fished for non¬ 
existent trout with an entirely unplausible fly. 

“So Clara Jenkins said that about me ?” 

I nodded. “Just let it fall, you know. Miss Prudence, 
in the give-and-take of conversation.” 

“If you weren’t a stranger in our neighborhood, you 
wouldn’t pay any attention to what a girl like that says.” 

“Oh, but it was about you,” I protested. 

Prudence looked at me as if she were thinking that I 
might have been amusing when I was young. 

“What was the word Clara used ?” she asked. 

“There were two words. ‘Calculating’ was one.” 

“Oh, was it ?” 

“Yes. The other was ‘heartless.’ ” 

“I like that! It’s only what mama tells me.” 

“Your mother tells you ?” My tone indicated great 
surprise: her mother is the vicar’s wife, and the alleged 
counsel seemed unpastoral. 


[ 203 ] 



LOVE S LOGIC 

“Yes — and it’s quite right too,” Prudence main¬ 
tained. “You know how poor we are. And there are 
eight of us!” 

“Five and three ?” 

“Yes: Johnny at Oxford, Dick at school, and Clarence 
to go soon! And the girls — you know what girls cost, 
anyhow!” 

“They vary, I suppose ?” 

“Just you talk to mama about that!” 

*That didn’t seem urgent. “Another time,” I mur¬ 
mured, “I shall be pleased to exchange impressions.” 

I don’t think Prudence heard. She was looking very 
thoughtful, a minute wrinkle ornamenting her brow. 

“The boys must have their education; the girls must 
have justice done to them.” 

“To be sure! And so-?” 

“And why shouldn’t one fall in love with a man who 
— who-” 

“Would be delighted to do all that ?” 

“Of course he’d be delighted. I mean a man who — 
who could do it.” 

“Rich ?” 

“Papa says differences in worldly position are rightly 
ordained.” 

“No doubt he’s correct. Your man would have to be 
quite rich, wouldn’t he ? Seven besides you!” 

“Oh, we aren’t accustomed to much,” said Prudence, 
with a smile at me which somehow made me wish for a 
[ 204 ] 




PRUDENCE AND THE BISHOP 
check-book and an immense amount of tact; a balance 
at the bank we will presuppose. 

“And may I ask,” I resumed, “why you are selected 
out of all the family for this — er — sacrifice 

She blushed, but she was wary. “I’m the eldest girl, 
you see,” she said. 

“Just so,” I agreed. “I was veiy stupid not to think of 
that.” 

“The others are so young.” 

“Of course. It would be waiting till it was too 
late ?” 

“Yes, Mr. Wynne.” 

I interpolate here a plain statement of fact. The other 
girls resemble their mother, and the vicar’s type, repro¬ 
duced in Miss Prudence, is immeasurably the more 
refined — not to say picturesque. 

“Oh if you won’t be serious!” sighed Prudence — 
though, as has been seen, I had said nothing. 

“It certainly is not a laughing matter,” I admitted. 

“How difficult the world is! Was Sir John at the 
Jenkins’ ?” 

“Sir John ?” 

“Sir John Ffolliot — of Ascombe, you know.” 

“Tall red-faced young man .?” 

“Yes, very — I mean, rather. Rather tall, anyhow.” 

“Oh yes, he was there.” 

“When Clara talked about me ?” 

“So far as I recollect, he was not in earshot at that 
[ 205 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

moment, Miss Prudence. But then I wasn’t in ea/shot 
while she talked to him. So possibly-” 

“Now she really is a cat, isn’t she ?” 

“I haven’t the smallest doubt of it. But you must 
make allowances.” 

“I do. Still, I can’t see why plain people are to say 
just what they like!” 

“Nobody minds them,” I observed consolingly. 

The conversation flagged for a moment or two. That 
didn’t matter; one can always look at the view. 

“Is my hat crooked ?” asked Miss Prudence with 
affected anxiety. 

“I should say you’d get him, if you really want him,” 
I remarked. 

My thoughts were switched off in another direction 
by Miss Prudence’s next utterance. I don’t complain 
of that; it was probably rightly ordained, as the vicar 
would have said; there’s something in a meadow and a 
river that resists middle age — and I don’t know that a 
blue frock, with eyes to match, and hair that- 

“Do you happen to know how much a bishop gets ?” 
asked Prudence. 

“Not precisely. Miss Prudence. It varies, I believe 
— like what girls cost. All I know is that it’s never 
enough for the needs of his diocese.” 

“Oh, isn’t it?” She looked rather troubled over this 
information. 

“So the papers say — and the bishops too sometimes.” 

[ 206 ] 




PRUDENCE AND THE BISHOP 

“Still you wouldn’t call tliem exactly poor, would 
you ?” 

“/ call them poor! Good Lord !” was my observation. 

“You know our bishop’s Palace ?” 

“A charming residence. Miss Prudence — even 
stately.” 

“And Sir John says he drives awfully good horses.” 

“Let us rely on Sir John where we can.” 

“And Mr. Davenport says he gives away a lot.” 

“Mr. Davenport ?” 

“So he can’t be poor, can he ?” 

“Mr. Davenport ?” 

“Oh, I beg pardon! But you’ve met him. How forget¬ 
ful you are! Papa’s curate!” 

“Dear me, dear me! Of course! You mean Frank 

“Papa calls him Frank.” 

“You all call him Frank.” 

“I suppose we do — yes.” 

“So I forgot his surname just for the minute. Does he 
call you Prudence ?” 

“What has that got to do with it ?” 

“Roughly speaking, it ranges from three to seven 
thousand a year. More for archbishops, according to 
scale, of course.” 

“Well, that sounds plenty,” said Prudence. 

(I have ascertained from Crockford's Directory that 
the value of the vicar’s living is three hundred and 
twenty-five pounds per annum.) 

[ 207 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Don’t be calculating, Miss Prudence!” 

“And heartless ?” The little wrinkle was on her brow 
again. 

“That remark of Miss Jenkins’ seems to rankle!” 

“I wasn’t thinking — altogether — of Clara.” 

It seemed hard if somebody else had been calling 
her heartless too — or even thinking it. And all for 
listening to her mother! I tried to administer con¬ 
solation. 

“The thing is,” I observed, “a judicious balancing of 
considerations. Here, on the one hand, is justice to be 
done to the girls — in the way of accomplishments and 
appearance, I may presume ? — and education to be 
given to the boys — it would be no bad thing if some 
one taught Dick how to make a fly, for example; on the 
other hand lie what I may broadly term your inclinations 
and-” 

I woke to the fact that Miss Prudence had not been 
listening to the latter portion of my remark. She was 
rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the 
other, and frowning now quite heavily. Then she twisted 
one little hand round the other; and almost inaudibly she 
said: “How can one balance considerations”—(She 
infused a pleasant scorn into her intonation of these 
respectable words) — “How can one balance considera¬ 
tions when-?” 

Prima jade that “when —” admitted of various inter¬ 
pretations. But I chose one without hesitation. 

[ 208 ] 




PRUDENCE AND THE BISHOP 

“Then why this talk about how much a bishop gets, 
you calculating heartless girl 

She darted at me a look of fearfui merriment. 

“And they make them quite young sometimes in these 
days,” I added. And I rounded off my period by remark¬ 
ing that Sir John Ffolliot seemed a stupid sort of dog. 

“Yes, isn’t he ?” 

“Might do for Clara Jenkins ?” 

“If I thought that —” Miss Prudence began hotly. 

“But the idea is preposterous,” I added hastily. “One 
of your sisters now ?” 

“That’s really not a bad idea,” she conceded grac¬ 
iously. 

In fact she had suddenly grown altogether very grac¬ 
ious — and I do not refer merely to the marked civility 
of her manner toward myself. The frown had van¬ 
ished, the wrinkle was not: the hands were clasped in a 
comfortable repose. She looked across to me with a 
ridiculously contented smile. 

“It’s such a good thing to have a talk with a really 
sensible man,” she said. 

I took off my hat — but I also rose to my feet. To 
present me as a future bishop was asking too much of 
the whirligig of time. Not a kaleidoscope could do it! 
Besides I wasn’t serious about it; it was just the mea¬ 
dow, the river — and the rest. In order to prove this to 
myself beyond dispute, I said that I had to go to the 
post-office and despatch an important letter. 

[ 209 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“To the post office ?” said Prudence, displaying some 
confusion at the mention of that institution. “Oh, then, 
would you mind — it would be so kind — would you 
really mind- 

“Calling in at the parlor window and telling Mr. 
Davenport that you’re going to have some tennis after 
tea ? With pleasure, of course.” 

“I didn’t know you knew he lodged therej” she cried. 

“Pending promotion to the Palace, yes.” 

I made that last remark after I had turned my back, 
and I didn’t look around to see whether Miss Prudence 
had heard it; it was, in fact, in the nature of an “aside” 
— a thing which may be heard or not at pleasure. 

“Won’t you come too ?” she called. 

“Certainly not. I propose to meditate.” On these 
words I did turn round, and waved her farewell. I think 
she was indulging in a most proper forgetfulness of her 
brothers and sisters — and, incidentally, of myself. 
So I proceeded to the post-office, although of course I 
had no letter at all to send. 

I found Mr. Davenport in flannels, sitting with his 
feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a pipe and reading. 
He was an engaging six-feet of vigor, and I delivered my 
message with as little rancor as could be expected under 
the circumstances. 

“I think I’ll go,” he said, briskly knocking out his 
pipe. 

It was some satisfaction to me to remind him that it 

[ 210 ] 



PRUDENCE AND THE BISHOP 
was only half-past three, and that tennis didn’t begin 
till after tea. He put his pipe baek between his teeth 
with a disappointed jerk. 

“What are you reading ?” I inquired affably. I must 
be pictured as standing outside the post-office parlor 
window while conducting this colloquy. 

He looked a trifle ashamed. “The fact is, I sometimes 
try to keep rq^ my Latin a bit,” he explained, conscious 
of the eccentricity of this proceeding. “It’s Juvenal.” 

“Not so very clerical,” I ventured to observe. 

“A great moralist,” he maintained — yet with an eye 
distantly twinkling with the light of unregenerate days. 

“I suppose so. That bit about prudence now-?” 

“About who ?” cried he, springing to his feet and 
dropping his poet on the floor. 

“Evidently you recollect! Nullum numen ahest si sit 
Prudentia -” 

“Curiously enough I’ve just been having a shot at a 
rendering of that couplet,” said Mr. Davenport. As he 
spoke he approached the window: I sat down on the sill 
outside and lit a cigar. 

“Curiously enough indeed!” said I. “May I be privi¬ 
leged to hear it ?” 

He threw out one arm and recited- 

All Heavens with us^ so we Prudence win: 

If Fortune's hailed a goddess, ours the sin! 

“Pretty well for the spirit, but none too faithful to the 

[ 211 ] 





LOVE’S LOGIC 

letter,” I remarked critically. “However, Dr. Johnson 
is open to the same objection. You remember- 

Celestial Wisdom calms the mindy 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 

“I call that pretty bad.” 

“Not much to the present point, anyhow,” I agreed. 

“I had another rime — and after all the rime’s 
the difficulty. How about this ? — 

All Heaven's ours i] Prudence we can gain. 

Our silly hands build Fortune's empty jane ! 

“Really you fire me to emulation,” I said. “I think 
I’ll try my own hand at it- 

Ij Prudence lovesy what other boon need I ? 

“Splendid!” he cried, puffing at his empty pipe. 

Unless a bishop's palace by-and-by ? 

This audacious departure from the griginal affected 
him powerfully. He laid a hand like a pair of tweezers 
on my wrist and cried excitedly- 

“You’ve been talking to her!” 

“So have you,” said I, “and to better purpose. 

By a subtle and rapid movement he was, in a mo¬ 
ment, outside the door and stood facing me in the little 
front garden of the post-office. 

[ 212 ] 





PRUDENCE AND THE BISHOP 

“I shouldn’t wonder if they began tennis before tea,” 
he remarked. 

“You’ll find somebody to play a single. Good-by!” 
He was turning away eagerly when something occurred 
to me. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Davenport-” 

“Yes ?” 

“Do you think you’ll ever be a bishop really ?” 

“Only when I talk to her,” he said, with a confused 
yet candid modesty which I found agreeable. 

“Go and do homage for your temporalities,” I said. 

“I say — her mother!” whispered Mr. Davenport. 

“She probably thought the same when she married 
the vicar.” 

He smiled. “That’s rather funny!” he cried back to 
me, as he started off along the road. 

“So your son-in-law may think some day, my boy,” 
said I with a touch of ill-humor. No matter, he was out 
of hearing. Besides I was not, I repeat, really serious 
about it — not half so serious, I venture to conjecture, 
as the vicar’s wife! 

To her, perhaps. Dr. Johnson’s paraphrase may be 
recommended. 


[ 213 ] 



THE OPENED DOOR 


W’ 


E may float for ten minutes,” said the 
Second Officer. 

After a pause the passenger remarked: 
“I’m glad of it, upon my word I am.” 

“You’re thankful for small mercies,” was the retort. 

The passenger did not explain. He could not expect 
the Second Officer, or the rest of them, to sympathize 
with his point of view, or share the feelings which made 
him rejoice, not at the respite, but at the doom itself. 
Those who were not busy getting the women and chil¬ 
dren into the boats, and keeping the ship above water, 
were cursing the other vessel for steaming away without 
offering aid, or clutching in bewildered terror at any 
one who could tell them how the collision had happened 
and what hope there was of salvation. The boats were 
got safely off, laden to their utmost capacity; life-buoys 
were handed round, and, when they ran short, men 
tossed up for them, and the losers ransacked the deck 
for some makeshift substitute. The passenger took no 
part in the competition or the search. He stood with his 
hands in his Dockets and a smile on his lips, waiting for 
[ 214 ] 


THE OPENED DOOR 
the ten minutes to wear themselves away. His only 
grudge against fate lay in those superfluous ten minutes. 

Left to himself, he began to think, lighting a cigarette. 
He had to use a fusee, which was a pity, especially for 
his last cigarette, but the wind blew fiercely. It was 
strange how much harm a man could do without being 
a particularly bad fellow, and what an impasse he could 
get himself into. He had drifted on, and things had fallen 
out so maliciously that, because of him who hated hurt¬ 
ing anybody, women were weeping and children smirch¬ 
ed, and an old man hiding an honored head in shame. 
He had even been required to be grateful to the man 
he hated most in the world, because he had not been 
put in the dock. That stuck in his throat more than 
all the rest. He had been ready to pay his shot and 
go to gaol — he would rather have done five years than 
owed the thanks for escaping them — but in very 
decency he couldn’t insist on going; the trial would have 
killed the old man. So they has concocted a plan — 
a chance of a new life, they called it — and shipped him 
off to the other side of the world with fifty pounds in his 
pocket — the gift of that enemy. At least he could get 
rid of the money now; and, still smiling, he dropped his 
pocket-book over the side into the great heaving waves. 
He had always meant it to go there — God forbid he 
should use it — but he had hardly hoped to go with it. 
He would follow it soon now. The door whose handle 



[ 215 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

cord in a most marvelously convenient way. To throw 
one’s self overboard is a cold-blooded, impossible sort of 
proceeding; the old man and the woman would have 
heard or it, and he really didn’t want to give them any 
more pain. But this catastrophe was — from a selfish 
point of view — incredibly opportune. Such an exit had 
the dignity of the inevitable, and left the “new life” an 
agreeable hypothesis from which he doubted not that 
much comfort would be sucked by those dear, loving, 
foolish folk at home. Much “new life” he would have 
led! But let them think he would. And hurrah for a col¬ 
lision in deep water! 

Five minutes gone — and they were deep in the water. 
The skipper was on the bridge; the engineers had come 
up and, together with the crew and such of the passen¬ 
gers as had not got away in the boats, were standing 
ready to jump at the word. Some were praying, some 
swearing, most discussing the matter in very much 
the same tones as they used in speculating about the 
weather on deck after dinner; but they all kept their 
eyes on the skipper. 

“I shall just,” said the passenger, peering over the 
side, “go straight down. It oughtn’t to take long,” and 
he shivered a little. It had just struck him that the pro¬ 
cess might be very unpleasant, howe^'^er saBsfactory the 
result. 

There was a sudden movement of the deck under him. 
The skipper seemed to shout, and, waving his arms, 
[ 216 ] 


THE OPENED DOOR 
began to run down from the bridge. Then everybody 
jumped. The passenger dropped his finished cigarette, 
kicked off his deck shoes — a purely instinctive action — 
and jumped too. “Here goes!” he said. 

When he came up again, he found himself swimming 
strongly. His arms and legs were not asking his leave 
about it; they were fighting the water as they had been 
taught, and they promised to make a long bout of it. 
He had never felt so vigorous. It was great nonsense, 
prolonging the thing like this. If he had thought of it, 
he wouldn’t have jumped so clear, then he would have 
been sucked down. He saw heads bobbing here and there 
about him; one man shrieked aloud and disappeared 
It was — less the shrieking — just what he wanted to 
do. But he couldn’t. It was all very well to want to die, 
but this strong body of his had a word to say to that. Its 
business was to live, and it meant to live if it could. 
Well, it had always been a rebellious carcass — that 
was the cause of a great deal of the trouble — and it 
evidently meant to have its own way for this last time. 

And it began to infect him. For the life of him, he 
couldn’t give in now. It was a fight between him and the 
water. He might have been a brute, and a rogue, and 
all the other pretty names that had come as sauce to 
that wretched fifty pounds, but he had never been a 
coward or shirked a fight. It was all right — he must be 
drowned in the end. But he would keep it up as long 
as he could; he would see it through; and with strong 
[ 217 ] 


LOVERS LOGIC 

strokes he met and mastered and beat down wave after 
wave, outlived head after head that sank round him, and 
saw the old ship herself go under with a mighty pother. 

All at once he found himself within reach of a spar. 
He was getting tired, though full of fight still, and he 
clutched at it for all the world as though he were in love 
with life. Hallo! There was a boy clinging to it — one 
of the ship’s boys, whom we knew well. 

“Get off!” shrieked the boy. “Get off! It’s mine.” 

“All right, Johnny, we’ll share it.” 

“It won’t take us. Get off. It’s not fair. Oh, it’s going 
under!” 

It was. The passenger let go^ but kept close to it. It 
wouldn’t bear Johnny and him, but it would bear 
elohnny alone; it would also, probably, bear him alone. 
And he was getting very tired.*^Johnny saAV his face and, 
clinging tight, began to cry. The passenger laid hold 
again. How jolly it was to have something under one’s 
chest!. Johnny had had it for a long while. And what’s 
a ship’s boy ? Besides, it’s every man for himself at such 
a time. 

Johnny’s end ducked and Johnny’s head dipped with 
it. Johnny came up whimpering piteously, and swore in 
childish rage at the intruder. He was not a pretty boy, 
and he looked very ugly when he swore. 

“You’ll drown us both, you —!” he gasped. 

“It would bear me,” replied the passenger, “and you 
shouldn’t swear, Johnny.” 

[ 218 ] 


THE OPENED DOOR 

Johnny blubbered and swore again. 

For an instant the passenger, resting as lightly as he 
could on the spar, watched Johnny’s face. 

“You’ve kept afloat some time,” he observed, with an 
approving air. He liked pluck in boys — even ugly 
whimpering boys. His end went under, and he came up 
gurgling and spitting. He felt now as if he had no legs 
at all. 

Johnny had stopped swearing, but was blubbering 
worse than ever. 

“Damn it,” said the passenger, “haven’t I made enough 
people do that ?” And he added, “Ta-ta, Johnny,” and 
let go the spar. 

His legs were there, after all, and they let him know 
it. For time unmeasured he battled for the life he was 
weary of, and would not let himself be pushed through 
the open door. But at last he crossed its threshold. 

Johnny was drowned too. But then the passenger had 
always protested against his acts being judged by their 
consequences; and it doesn’t seem fair to take it against 
him both ways. 


[ 219 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC* 


The Scene is a hall or corridor^ between two con¬ 

servatories^ one on the right, the other on the left. 
Besides plants and other ornaments, the corridor is 
furnished with a couch and a small round table with 
an arm-chair by it. The time is between eleven and 
twelve in the evening. 

Mr. Marchesson^s bach is visible in the doorway leading 
to the conservatory on the right. 

M r. M. {Speaking to unseen person in the conser¬ 
vatory.) So awfully sorry, but I absolutely prom¬ 
ised to meet a man at the club. {Pause.) Beg 
pardon ? Oh, a fellow named Smith — you don’t know 
him. {Pause.) Yes, I hope we shall meet soon, but I’m 
rather afraid I may have to go out of town. {Pause.) 
Good-night. {Backs a little further into the corridor.) 
Phew! 

Miss GraingePs back appears in the doorway leading to 
the conservatory on the left. 

* Dramatic Rights are reserved and protected as required by law. 

[ 220 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Miss G. {Speaking to unseen person in the conserva¬ 
tory.) Yes, of course we shall be friends. What ? {Pause.) 
Oh yes, great friends. What {Pause.) I don’t know — I 
may be going out of town. Good-night. {She hacks into 
the corridor^ throws her eyes uptcards, and draws in 
her breath with a long sigh.) 

Mr. M. meanwhile has taken out a cigarette, and is just 
aboid to light it tvhen they turn and see one another. 
Both start, smile, and then become grave and rather 
^ormal in manner. 

Mr. M. {Putting his hands — with the cigarette and 
the match-box — behind him.) Oh, I beg pardon! I 
didn’t think anybody — {He turns as if to retreat into 
the conservatory.) 

Miss G. Please don’t go — and please do smoke. It’s 
so nice and cool here, isn’t it ? {She sits down on the couch 
and fans herself gently.) 

Mr. M. May I really ? {He comes forward a little, 
holding up his cigarette.) You’re sure you don’t mind ? 

{She nods. He lights the cigarette.) 

Miss G. It’s so warm in that conservatory. {Pointing 
to the left.) 

Mr. M. {With feeling.) So it was in that one. {Pointing 
to the right. He wipes his brow, she fans herself assid¬ 
uously.) Ouf! 

Miss G. You do look rather — flustered. 

[2211 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Mr. INI. Well — in fact — so do you. 

{They look at one another, trying to remain grave, hut 
presently both give a short embarrassed langh. Mr. 
M. comes a step nearer, placing his hand on the back 
of the chair.) 

I’ve got it! I know the signs! 

{She looks at him inqniringly and with amusement. He 
nods toward the conservatory on the left.) You’ve been 
refusing some fellow in there. 

Miss G. Have I ? {Pointing to the conservatory on the 
right.) And what have you been doing in there ? 

Mr. M. {After a careful glance over his shoulder.) As 
you didn’t see the lady, I don’t mind admitting that I’ve 
))een doing the same thing. 

Miss G. {Raising her brows.) Refusing ? 

Mr. AL Refusing — to ask. 

Miss G. Oh! 

^Ir. AI. {He smokes vigorously, then throws his cigar¬ 
ette into a receptacle.) It’s a precious lot easier for you 
than for us, though. I say, I must sound like a conceited 
idiot, I know, })ut — well, you see, the fact is- 

]\tiss G. That you’re Mr. Marchesson-? 

Air. AI. {Pleased.) A^ou know my name ? 

jMiss G. Oh yes. Aline’s Grainger. 

jMr. AI. Yes. I — I know your name, Miss Grainger. 

Aliss G. You’re diamonds ? {She iouches some that she 
is wearing as she speaks. He nods gloomily.) 

[ 222 ] 




LOVE’S LOGIC 

I’m soap. {He glances jar a brief instant at his hand.) 
So, of course —! {She shrugs her shoulders and closes 
her fan. A momenfs 'pause.) 

Mr. M. Beastly, isn’t it. 

Miss G. Well, it’s monotonous. 

Mr. M. It’s worse than that. It’s degrading, it’s heart¬ 
breaking, it’s ruin to the character. It saps my faith in 
humanity, it trammels my actions, it confines my affec¬ 
tions, it cuts me off from friendship, from the pleasant 
and innocent companionships which my nature longs for. 
I alone mayn’t look with the eye of honest admiration 
on a pretty girl, I alone mayn’t- 

Miss G. Sit in a conservatory ? 

Mr. M. {With a shudder.) Above all — not that! I 
tell you it’s kept me single for years! And you for- 

Miss G. Years ? 

Mr. M. {Smiling.) Months! Ail last season and most 
of this! Take your case now- 

Miss G. {Eagerhj leaning forivard.) Oh yes, let’s I 

Mr. M. You’d naturally enjoy men’s society, you’d 
like their friendship, their company, their admiration. 
You’d enjoy an innocent but piquant flirtation. 

Miss G. Should I ? 

Mr. M. {LooJcing at her.) Well, yes, I think you would. 
You daren’t venture on it! 

Miss G. It is generally fatal, I admit. 

Mr. M. The plain truth is that the thing’s intolerable. 
I shall stick a placard on my waistcoat — “Not for sale.” 

[ 223 ] 




LOVE’S LOGIC 

Miss G. And I’d better beeome a hospital nurse! 

Mr. M. That’s rather an odd remedy, Miss Grainger. 
But, in some form or other, celibacy — public and 
avowed celibacy — is our only chance. {He throws him¬ 
self down in the chair.) 

Miss G. {Low.) Unless there was somebody who- 

Mr. M. Didn’t know who you were ? Not to be done 
in these days, with the illustrated press! And — you’ll 
excuse my referring to it ? — but your fond father put 
^ou on the wrappings of the soap. And owing to the 
large sale of the article- 

Miss G. Yes, I know. But I meant — if there was 
somebody who didn’t — didn’t care about the money 

Mr. M. {Half under his breath.) Said he didn’t! 

Miss G. And who — who really did care just for — 
for one’s self alone ? Oh, I must sound romantic and 
absurd; but you — you know what I mean, Mr. Mar- 
chesson ? There are such men, aren’t there ? 

Mr. M. Well, admitting there was one — and it’s a 
handsome admission, which I limit entirely to the male 
sex — in the first place you wouldn’t believe in him half 
the time, and in the second he wouldn’t believe in him¬ 
self half the time, and in the third none of your friends 
would believe in him any of the time. 

Miss G. That would be horrid — especially the 
friends, I mean. 

Mr. M. Female friends! 

Miss G. Of course. 


[ 224 ] 




LOVE’S LOGIC 

Mr. M. Another disgusting aspect of the business. 
Do you — do I — ever get legitimate credit for our 
personal attractions ? Never! Never! 

Miss G. {With conviction.) That’s awfully true. 

Mr. M. So even your paragon, if you found him, 
wouldn’t meet the case. And as for my paragon, nobody 
but Diogenes would take on the job of finding her. 

Miss G. {Musing.) Is nobody indifferent to money ? 

Mr. M. Only if they’ve got more than they want. 
{He gives a glance at her, unperceived by her, rises, puts 
his hands in his pockets, and looks at her.) Only the un- 
happy rich. 

Miss G. {Roused jrom abstraction.) I beg pardon, what ? 

Mr. M. Imagine a man surfeited, cloyed, smothered 
in it; a man who has to pay six other men to look after 
it; a man who can’t live because of the income tax, and 
daren’t die because of the death duties; a man over¬ 
whelmed with houses he can’t live in, yachts he can’t 
sail, horses he can’t ride; a man in whom the milk of 
human kindness is soured by impostors, and for whom 
even ‘‘deserving cases” have lost their charm; a man 
who’s been round the d—d world — I beg your par¬ 
don, really I beg your pardon — who’s been round the 
wretched world twice, and shot every beast on it at 
least once; who is sick of playing, and daren’t work for 
fear of making a profit- 

Miss G. It almost sounds as if you were describing 
yourself. 

[ 225 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

Mr. M. Oil, no, no ! No! At least — cr — if at all, 
quite accidentally. I’ll describe you now, if you like. 

Miss G. I get absolutely no thrill out of a new frock! 

Mr. M. There it is — in a nutshell, by Jingo! Miss 
Grainger, we have found the people we want, the people 
who are indifferent to money, and would, — that is, 
might — marry us for love alone. 

Miss G. (Laughing.) You mean — one another ? 
That’s really rather an amusing end to our philosojihiz- 
ing, isn’t it ? (She rises, laughing still, and holds out her 
hand.) Good-night. 

Mr. M. (Indignantly.) Good-night be—! Why, our 
talk’s just got to the most interesting point! 

Miss G. Well, you ought to know — you’ve been 
doing most of it yourself. 

Mr. M. Oh, but don’t go! I — I’ll do it better — and 
perhaps quicker too — if you’ll stay a l)it. 

Miss G. (Sitting again, with a laugh.) I’ll give you 
just five minutes to wind up the argument. 

Mr. M. The conclusion’s obvious in logic. I ought 
to offer you my hand in marriage, and you ought to ac¬ 
cept. 

Miss G. (Laughing.) Logic is logic, of course, Mr. 
Marchesson — but we’ve never even been introduced. 
I don’t think you need feel absolutely compelled to go 
through the ceremony you suggest. We’ll be illogical, 
and say good-night 

Mr. M. You admit the logic ? You see the force of it ? 

[ 226 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Miss G. Women don’t act by logic, though. 

Mr. M. It’s always at least a good excuse. 

Miss G. If you want one, yes. {She is about to rise 
again.) 

Mr. M. I do want one. 

{She shakes her head, laughing.) 

I’m serious. 

Miss G. You don’t really want me to think that ? 
The very first time we meet ? The lady in there {'point¬ 
ing to the conservatory on the right) must have frightened 
you terribly indeed. 

Mr. M. Until the logic of the thing struck me — 
which happened only to-night — I thought it no good 
to try to know you. 

Miss G. I don’t suppose you ever thought about it at 
all. 

Mr. M. I had nothing to give you — and you had 
nothing to give me! So it seemed in the days of illogi¬ 
cality. Now it’s all different. So I insist on — the cere¬ 
mony. 

Miss G. {Laughing, hut a little agitated.) Go on, then 
But your logic doesn’t bind me, you know. 

{He comes and sits on the couch by her.) 

Yes, that’s quite right — but don’t put too much 
feeling into it. It — it’s only logic! No, I — I don’t 
think I want you to go on. I — don’t think it’s a good 
joke. 

Mr. M. It’s not a joke. I’ve never been introduced 
[ 227 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

to you, you say. I’ve never spoken to you before to¬ 
night, I know. But you’re not a stranger to me. There 
have been very few days in the last three months when 

I haven’t managed to see you- 

Miss G. {Low.) Managed to see me — managed ? 

Mr. M. Yes — though I must say you go to some 
places which but for your presence would be very dull. 
I stuck at none of them, Miss Grainger. I swallowed 
every one! Did you ever notice me ? 

Miss G. Of course not. 

{He looks at her.) 

Of course I’ve seen you, but I never noticed you. 

{He continues to look at her.) 

Not especially, at any rate. 

Mr. M. I suppose I must have been there a hundred 
times. How often did you notice me ? 

Miss G. How absurd! I’m sure I don’t remember. 
Very seldom. 

Mr. M. Don’t you remember even the first time ? 

Miss G. Oh yes, that was at the — No; certainly I 
don’t. 

Mr. M. Yes; it was at the Phillips’! 

{She smiles against her will. He also smiL .j 
I’m glad you remember. 

Miss G. You stared so — as you may perhaps re¬ 
member. 

Mr. M. Have I stared every time ? 

Miss G. Very often anyhow. 

[ 228 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

Mr. M. You noticed that ? 

Miss G. Every time I noticed you, I noticed that. 

Mr. M. And you noticed that very often! Therefore 
you noticed me- 

Miss G. Please, no more logic! 

Mr. M. And yet you try to treat me as a stranger! 

Miss G. It is rather a matter of trying with you, isn’t 
it ? You’re not very susceptible to the treatment. 

Mr. M. And pretend to be surprised at my wanting to 
marry you! If the logic of it still leaves you doubtful- 

Miss G. Doubtful 11 never said I was doubtful! 

Mr. M. Look at the romantic side! How romantic it 
would be to throw yourself away on riches! Did you 
never think about that ? Not when I — stared ? 

Miss G. I didn’t exactly mean that you exactly stared. 
You — you — you — Oh, you really might help me 
out! What did you do ? 

Mr. M. I’d so much rather hear you say it. 

Miss G. Well, fight from the beginning there was 
something in your look — I mean the way you looked at 
me — I can’t describe it, but it got more and more like 
that. 

Mr. M. Yes, I believe I meant it to. 

Miss G. Never forward or — or impertinent. Just nice, 
Mr. Marchesson. 

Mr. M. I say, was that a good chap you refused in 
there {indicating the conservatory to the left) a thousand 
years ago ? 


r 229 1 




LOVE’S LOGIC 

Miss G. Very — so handsome! I liked n awfully. 
And the girl you refused- 

Mr. M. To ask- 

Miss G. In there ? {Indicating the conservatory to the 
right.) 

Mr. M. Really, you know — impartially speaking —■ 
a ripper! Why did we ? 

Miss G. What ? 

Mr. M. I said, “Why did we ?” 

Miss G. Was it — a thousand years ago ? Yes ? 

Mr. M. Which certainly makes it absurd to call us 
strangers. 

Miss G. I wasn’t thinking any more about that. Oh, 
you do-? 

Mr. M. I do — mean it. 

Miss G. {Rising.) I think that — after all — it 
wouldn’t be so bad in — in- 

Mr. M. The conservatory ? 

{They look at one another and laugh.) 

Miss G. It’s terribly absurd even to think about it. 

Mr. M. It’s absolutely logical! And, by the way, it’s 
time I put my question. 

Miss G. Haven’t you ? 

Mr. M. Then it’s time you gave your answer. 

Miss G. {Putting her hands in his.) Haven’t I ? 

Mr. M. There’ll be a great deal of talk about this to¬ 
morrow ! {He offers her his arm^ and they go toward the 
conservatory on the left.) Oh, your conservatory ? Noi 
[ 230 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

Miss G. Yours would be just as bad. 

Mr. M. Then stay here. 

Miss G. Take me to my carriage. And — and come 
and see if I’m not perfectly logical to-morrow. 

{He releases her arm and kisses her hand. She adds in ^ 
a low voice:) And — somehow — it is absurd — so 
wonderfully happy to-night! Will you come with me ? 

Mr. M. Will I live ? Come! Quick — through your 
conservatory! {He fids his arm round her waist.) Come! 

{They disappear into the conservatory on the left.) 

Curtain 


LA MORT A LA MODE* 

MONSIEUR LE DUG — MADAME LA 
MARQUISE 


(The tumbril is the last of a roio of several y some of which 
have lefty some of which stand aty the gates of the 
Conciergerie. The others are fully in this the Due is 
alone. At the beginning of the conversation the tum¬ 
bril stands stilly later it is moving slowlyy escorted 
through a turbulent crowd by National Guards to its 
destination in the Place Louis Quinze {Place de la 
Revolution.) The time is noon of a fine day during 
the Reign of Terror.) 

D ue. Alone! My luck holds to the last. They’re 
close as fish in a tub in the others — and by 
strange chance every man next to his worst 
enemy — or at least his best friend’s husband! These 
rascals have no consideration. Ah, somebody coming 
here! I’ve to have company after all. A woman, too —• 
deuce take it! {A lady is assisted into the tumbril. The 
* Dramatic Rights are reserved and protected as required by law. 
[ 232 ] 


LA MORT A LA MODE 
Due riseSy hows, and starts.) Marquise! {The lady sinks 
on the bench across the tumbril.) You here! {He takes 
snuff and murmurs:) Awkward! {Pauses and murmurs 
again:) Even her! Curse the hounds! 

Marquise. I — I heard you had escaped. 

Due. Ah, madame, I can no longer expect justice from 
you — only mercy. And — excuse me — M. le Marquis ? 

Marquise. He — he has gone- 

Due. Ah yes, yes. He went before us ? I rememi)er 
now. Er — my condolences. Marquise. But on what 
pretext are you —— ? 

Marquise. They say that, as his wife, I shared his 
designs and was in his confidence. 

Due. How little they know of the world! {Smiling.) 
As his wife — in his confidence! How simple the black¬ 
guards are! {Looks at her.) I protest I feel my presence 
inopportune. 

Marquise. No. {She holds out a little silver box.) Will 
you hold this for me ? {He takes it.) You may look. 
{Opening it he finds rouge and a powder-puff. The Mar¬ 
quise smiles faintly.) 

Due. {Shutting box.) On my honor you’ve no need of 
it this morning. Your cheeks display the most charming 
flush. Ah, we move. {She starts.) Yes, yes, it jolts hor¬ 
ribly. But I won’t drop the rouge. 

Marquise. Will it take long ? 

Due. It ? {Shrugs his shoulders.) Oh, before you know 
— before you know! 


[ 233 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Marquise. No, no — I mean the journey. 

Due. Ah, the journey! It will seem short now. Before 
you came, I feared the tedium — though the crowd’s 
amusing enough. Look at that fellow! Why in heaven’s 
name does he shake his fist at me ? He’s not one of my 
people, not even from my province. (Smiles at the crowd 
and seats himself by the Marquise.) You’re silent. Ah, 
I remember, now I remember! When we parted last, 
you vowed you’d never speak to me again. 

Marquise. I thought I never should. 

Due. The things we think we never shall do include 
all the most delightful things we do. 

Marquise. You seem to flatter yourself, monsieur. I 
meant what I said then; but times are changed. 

Due. Faith, yes! The times more than I. 

Marquise. More than you ? Ah, changeful times! 

Due. And their changes bring more grief than any of 
mine could. 

Marquise. Oh, as for grief —! It was your rudeness I 
deplored, more than my loss. 

Due. I am never rude, madame. I may have been- 

Marquise. (Low.) Unfaithful ? 

Due. (Low.) (Unworthy, madame. (She looks at him 
for a moment and sighs. He smiles and is about to speak 
when a great shout is heard from the direction of the Place 
Louis Quinze. She starts, turns a little pale, and involun¬ 
tarily stretches out a hand to him.) 

Marquise. What’s that ? What’s happening ? 

[ 234 ] 



LA MORT A LA MODE 

Due. Oh, they’re excited! In truth, my dear Mar¬ 
quise, I have long wished — 

Marquise. No, no — what was the shouting ? 

Due. Well — er — in fact, I imagine that the first of 
our friends must have arrived. 

Marquise. {Low.) Arrived! {He smiles, takes her 
hand and kisses it, then holds out the rouge-hox with an 
air of mockery) No, no — I won’t. 

Due. Why, no! We’ve no need of it. Let me bring the 
color to your cheeks. Once on a time I — well, at least 
I have been there when it came. Ah, it comes now! 
Listen to me. I have long wished to- 

Marquise. To explain ? 

Due. {Smiling.) Ah, you were always a little — a 
little — exacting. No, no; nobody can explain these 
things. I wished only to- 

Marquise. You daren’t apologize! 

Due. Ah, and you never were quite just to my good 
breeding. No again! I wished to tell you frankly tliat I 
made a very great mistake. {A voice from the croicd 
shouts “To Hell with them!” The Due laughs.) The 
Church’s prerogatives follow the King’s! Ah well! A 
terrible mistake. Marquise. 

Marquise. {Low hut eagerly.) You suspected me of 
— ? Was that why you-? 

Due. No. I suspected her. 

Marquise. Her ? But of what ? 

Due. Of wit, madame, and of charm. I was most unjust. 

[ 235 ] 





LOVE’S LOGIC 

Marquise. {Smiling.) And not perhaps of one other 
thing — in which respect you were unjust too ? 

Due. {Looking at her a moment and then smiling.) No, 
no — on my lionor I was not refused. 

Marquise. Oli, not refused ! {She turns away.) 

Due. Shall I tell you the reason of that ? 

Marquise. Can’t I — I at least — guess the reason ? 

Due. You least of all can guess it. I did not ask, Mar¬ 
quise. 

Marquise. {Turning quickly to him.) You didn’t- ? 

Due. On my word, no. You’ll ask me why not ? 

Marquise Why not, indeed ? It was unlike you, mon¬ 
sieur. 

Due. I thought of you — and behold, it became 
impossible. At the moment your image — {Another 
great shout is heard.) Hum, they never get tired of the 
sight, it seems. {lie glances at the Marquise, hut she has 
not noticed the shout. lie takes her hand and presses it 
(jenthj.) 

Marquise. It is true ? You ought to tell the truth now. 

Due. Now ? {Laughs.) Ah, yes! 

Marquise. Really true ? {She draws her hand aicay 
sharply.) 

Due. You don’t believe me ? 

Marquise. Yes, I believe you. But — but how stupid 
you were, monsieur! 

Due. Eh ? 

Alarquise. IIow stupid you were, monsieur. 

[ 23G ■> 



was 


LA MORT A LA MODE 

Due. True. {Takes snuff.) True, by heaven! I 
— monstrous stupid. 

Marquise. To think that you could- 

Due. Love her ? 

Marquise. Forget me, monsieur. Alas, I lose all m^’ 
pride in- (Pauses.) 

Due. In- ? (Pauses. They smile and she blushes.) 

Marquise. In any compliments you may have paid me. 

Due. (Softly.) You won’t forgive me ? Well, it’s the 
fashion now. I must die twice to-day ? 

Marquise. Twice — die twice! (Looks at him and 
trembles a little.) I — I had almost forgotten what — 
^vhere we were. (A fierce shout is heard, sounding nearer 
now.) Louis, they’ll — they’ll do nothing worse than —- 
kill me ? You don’t answer, Louis! 

Due. Yes, yes. There’s no fear — no fear of that 

Marquise. But you hesitated. 

Due. (Low.) If we must talk of death, pray let it he 
of mine. (She glances at him and lays her hand on his 
for a moment.) Yours seems too — too — (Smiles.) 
I want a word. Well, too incongruous, dear Marquise. 

^Tarquise. I have confessed — and forgiven all my 
enemies. 

Due. Am I your enemy ? Have you no forgiveness 
left for friends ? (She looks at him gravely for a moment, 
then smiles reluctantly.) Why, we were growing grave) 
That would be a bad ending. 

Marquise. The most seemly ending! 

[ 237 ] 





LOVE’S LOGIC 

Due. For me ? Oli, oh, Marquise! They’d think they’d 
got hold of the wrong man. Your hand’s a trifle cold. 

Marquise. {Laughing nervously.) Well, if it is ? We’ve 
stopped again! Are we near now ? 

Due. At the entrance of the Place, I believe. {Looks 
at her and goes on quickly.) You and I have walked here 
together before now. You remember ? Alone together — 
so often. {Rises.) Forgive me — as you face toward 
the Place the sun is in your eyes. Pray sit the other way. 
It’s pleasanter to look toward the river — cooler to the 
eye. You remember our walks, dear Marquise ? 

Marquise. You still look toward the Place, though. 

Due. {Laaighing.) Why yes! I can’t have the dogs 
saying I daren’t- 

Marquise. Are they to say it of me then, monsieur ? 
{She rises and stands by him, looking toivard the Place, 
.where the scaffold is now visible.) 

Due. {Removing his hat and bowing humbly.) I beg 
your pardon. 

Marquise. {Very loin.) Dear Louis, dear Louis-! 

Due. I thought life done. I was wrong a thousand 
times! 

Marquise. I cried when you- 

Due. Ah, if I beg them to torture me — Would that 
atone ? 

Marquise. They found me crying. Think of the hu¬ 
miliation! 

Due. Oh, I must have a talk with a priest — after all 
[ 238 ] 





LA MORT A LA MODE 
I must! {She ttirns aieay with a sob and then a gasping 
laugh.) Aye, that’s life, dearest Marquise — and perhaps 
it’s the other thing too. 

Marquise. I care less now, Louis. 

Due. Give me your hand a minute. Yes, it’s warmer 
now. And the rouge — why, madame, I swear the rouge 
is utterly superfluous! Shall we throw it to the mob It’s 
their favorite color. I’ll leave it in the cart — when they 
turn on one another, some hero may be glad of it. Mar¬ 
got, dear Margot, are you cold ? I thought you shivered 
as your arm touched mine. 

Marquise. {Low.) No. I’m — I’m just a little afraid, 
Louis. 

Due. Oh, no, no, no — Margot, no. You’re cold. Or —■ 
[^Smiling.) Come, flatter me. Say it’s agitation — say 
it’s joy. Come, Margot, say that! 

Marquise. {Drawing nearer.) They didn’t know what 
they were doing when they sent me with you. 

Due. The ignorance of the fellows is extraordinary 

Marquise. Because — everybody knew. 

Due. x41as, I was never too discreet! {More shoids 
are heard. The Guard in charge of the tumbril cries 
“Ready? WeWe the last.”) Hum! For to-day, I suppose 
he means! {He looks at her; her lips are moving. He takes 
off his hat and stands bareheaded. The movement of her 
lips ceases and she turns to him. He smiles.) I think you 
can have little need of prayer. 

Marquise. You say that ? You ? 

[ 239 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Due. Yes, I say that, Margot. {They are at the foot of 
the scaffold now.) As for me — well, I have always 
followed the fashion — and prayers are not the fashion 
now. I was bitten by M. de Voltaire. By the way, per¬ 
haps he’s had something to do with this — and we made 
him the fashion ! How whimsical! {The National Guard 
turns and points his finger toward the scaffold.) What ? 
Oh, at your service, monsieur. {He turns to the 
Marquise, smiling.) I must leave you — this time in 
love. 

Marquise. {Stretching oid her hands.) Let me go first. 

Due. On my soul, I couldn’t. {Softly.) The way is 
dark, let me show it you. 

Marquise. Louis, Louis! 

Due. And now — look now toward the river. Pray 
— toward the river! I want you to remember me at 
my best. And — Margot — you mustn’t — you mustn’t 
want the rouge. Your hand’s warm — still warm. 

Marquise. {Vehemently.) I will go first. I — I can’t 
see you — I will go first. 

Due. Your will is my law always. {She turns to des¬ 
cend.) It has been pleasant to come with you. 

Marquise. It was — easier — to come with you. 

Due. I am forgiven, Margot ? 

Marquise. Louis, dear Louis! {He raises her hand to 
his lips. She goes. He stands bareheaded, facing the scaf¬ 
fold while she su ffers. Then he pids his hat on and mounts 
the scaffold. They carry past him the basket containing 
[ 240 ] 


' LA MORT A LA MODE 
her head. A jjricst holds a crucifix hcjure him. He starts 
and bows to the spriest.) 

Due. I beg your pardon, father, but — I knew the 
lady very well. She died bravely, eh ? Pardon ? Think 
how we have lived as well as how we die ? Yes, yes; most 
just and — er — apposite. Die truly penitent ? Ah yes, 
yes. Forgive me — I’m not master of my time. {He hows 
and turns to the executioner and his assistants.) Don’t 
keep me waiting. My desire is to follow Madame la 
Marquise. What “The woman died well!” God save 
us — the woman! Well, as you please. Shall we say — 
{He places himself beneath the knife.) Shall we say, Mar¬ 
got ? Nobody was ever like Margot. {Smiles, then looks 
up.) Well ? Oh, you wait for me. Good! Messieurs, 
aRez! 


[ 241 ] 


THE RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA 


H 


Chapter One 

AVING reduced the rest of his kingdom to obed¬ 
ience in three arduous campaigns, King Stanis¬ 
las sat himself down with a great army before 
the strong place of Or, which was held against him by 
Runa, daughter of Count Theobald the Fierce. For 
Countess Runa said that since her father had paid nei¬ 
ther obedience nor tribute to the King’s father for fifty 
years, neither would she pay obedience or tribute to the 
King, nor would she open the -city gates to him save at 
her own time and by her own will. So the King came 
and enveloped the city on all sides, so that none could 
pass in or out, and sent his heralds to Countess Runa 
demanding surrender; in default of which he would 
storm the ramparts, sack the city, and lay the citadel 
level with the earth, in such wise that men should not 
remember the place where it had been. 

Sitting on her high chair, beneath the painted window 
through which the sun struck athwart her fair hair, 
Runa heard the message. 

[ 242 ] 



RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA 

“Tell the King — for a king he is, though no king of 
mine — that we are well armed and have kni«:hts of 
fame with us. Tell him that we are provisioned for more 
months than he shall reign years, and that we will tire 
him sooner than he can starve us.” 

She ceased speaking, and the principal herald, bow¬ 
ing low, asked: “Is that all the message ?” 

“No, there is more. Tell him that the daughter of 
Count Theobald the Fierce rules in the city of Or.” 

Bowing again, the principal herald asked: “Is that all 
the message ?” 

Runa sat silent for a minute. Then she said: “No, 
there is more. Tell the King that he must carry the cita¬ 
del before he can pass the ramparts.” 

The principal herald frowned, then smiled and said: 
“But with deference, madame, how can that be ? For the 
citadel is high on a rock, and the city lies round it below, 
and again round the city‘lie the ramparts. How, then, 
shall the King carry the citadel before-?” 

Runa raised her brows in weariness. 

“Your speech is as long as your siege will be,” she 
said. “You are a mouthpiece. Sir Herald, not an inter¬ 
preter. Begone, and say to the King what I have given 
you to say.” 

So the heralds returned to King Stanislas and gave 
him Runa’s answer; but the King, in his wrath, listened 
more to the first part of it than to the last, and assaulted 
the ramparts fiercely for three days. But Runa’s men 
[ 243 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

rolled his men back with loss and in confusion, for they 
were in good heart because of the message Runa had 
sent. “For,” they said, “our Countess has bidden the 
King perform what is impossible before she will yield the 
city; and as we trusted Theobald the father, so we trust 
the daughter Runa.” 

After his three assauhs had failed. King Stanislas 
waited in quiet for a month, drawing his cordon yet more 
closely round the city. Then he sent again to the Coun¬ 
tess, saying that he would spend the first half of his reign 
outside the walls of Or, provided he could spend the 
second half of it inside the same; yet if she would yield 
now, she should have his favor and all her wealth; but if 
she would not yield, she must await starvation and sack 
and the extremity of his anger. To which summons she 
answered only: “Tell the King that he must carry the 
citadel before he can pass the ramparts.” And she would 
say no more to the heralds. 

“A plague on her!” cried Stanislas. “A plague on the 
woman and her insolent riddles! Of what appearance 
is she ? I have never seen her.” 

“As the sun for beauty and the moon for dignity,” 
said the principal herald, whose occupation naturally 
bred eloquence. 

“Stuff!” said King Stanislas very crossly. 

The herald bowed, but with an offended air. 

“Does she seem sane ?” asked Stanislas. 

“Perfectly sane, sire,” answered the herald. “Al- 
[ 244 ] 


RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA 
though, as your Majesty deigns to intimate, the purport 
of her message is certainly not such as might reasonably 
be expected from a lady presumably endowed with-” 

“I am ready for the next audience,” said King Stanis¬ 
las to his Chamberlain. 

And after the next audience he sat down and thought. 
But, as often happens with meaner men, he took noth¬ 
ing by it, except a pain in the head and a temper much 
the worse. So that he ordered three more assaults on the 
ramparts of the City of Or, which ended as the first 
three had; and then sent another summons to Countess 
Runa, to which she returned the same answer. And for 
the life of him the King could see in it no meaning save 
that never in all his life should he pass the ramparts. 
^‘Only an army of birds could do what she says!” he 
declared peevishly. Indeed he was so chagrined and 
shamed that he would then and there have raised the 
siege and returned to the capital, had it not been for the 
unfortunate circumstance that, on leaving it, he had 
publicly and solemnly vowed never to return, nor to show 
himself to his lieges there, unless and until he should be 
master of the City of Or. So there he was, unable to enter 
either city, and saddled with a great army to feed, winter 
coming on, and the entire situation, as his Chancellor 
observed, full of perplexity. On the top of all this, too, 
there were constant sounds and signs of merriment and 
plenty within the city, and the Countess’ men, when 
they had eaten, took to flinging the bones of their meat 
[ 245 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

to the besiegers outside — an action most insulting, 
however one might be pleased to interpret it. 

Meanwhile Countess Runa sat among her ladies and 
knights, on her high chair under the emblazoned win¬ 
dow, with the sun striking athwart her fair hair. Often 
she smiled; once or twice she sighed. Perhaps she was 
wondering what King Stanislas would do next — and 
when he would understand her message. 


/ 


[ 246 ] 


Chapter Two 

T here was with King Stanislas’ army a certain 
friar named Nicholas, a man who was pious, 
brave, and cheerful, although, in the judgment 
of some, more given to good-fellowship and conviviality 
than became his sacred profession. He was a shrewd 
fellow too, and had a good wit; and for all these quali¬ 
ties Stanislas held him in good will and allowed him some 
degree of familiarity. Friar Nicholas had heard the 
Countess Runa’s message, which, indeed, had leaked 
through the army and been much discussed and can¬ 
vassed round the camp-fires. The friar had listened to 
all the talk, agreeing with every man in turn, nodding 
his head wisely, but holding his tongue closely. No man 
heard him utter any opinion whatsoever as to what 
Countess Runa meant — supposing her to mean any¬ 
thing save defiance pure and simple. 

One night, when the King sat in his tent very moody 
and sore out of heart with his undertaking, the flap of 
the tent was lifted, and Friar Nicholas stood there. 

“I did not summon you,” said the King. 

“David did not summon Nathan ” said Nicholas. 
“But he came to him.” 


[ 247 ,] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“What ewe-lamb is it that I have taken ?” Stanislas 
asked, smiling, for he was glad to be rid of his thoughts 
and have company. “Let Nathan drink with David,” 
he added, pushing a flagon of wine toward Nicholas, 
who, on this invitation, let the flap of the tent fall behind 
him and came in. “Is the ewe-lamb this one city which 
of all the realm holds out against me ? Is Or the ewe- 
lamb of Countess Runa ?” 

“The City of Or is the ewe-lamb,” said Nicholas, after 
he had drunk. 

“But in the first place, O Prophet, I have not taken 
it — a curse on it! And, in the second, it is mine by 
right, as by right it was my father’s before me. Why, 
then, am I to be denounced by my holy Prophet ?” 

“I do not come to denounce you for having taken it, 
but to show you how to take it,” answered Nicholas. 
And he stood there, in the center of the tent, wrapping 
his frock close round him. “O King,” said he, “I will 
put a question to you.” 

The King leaned back in his chair. “I will listen and 
answer,” he said. 

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King ?” asked 
Nicholas. 

“An army has no citadel,” answered the King. “A 
city has a citadel, a fortress of stone or of bricks, set in 
the middle of it and on high. But an army lies in tents 
or on the bare ground, moving hither and thither. An 
army has no citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered ?” 

[ 248 ] 


RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA 

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King ?” asked 
Nicholas again. 

“An army has no citadel,” replied the King. “A city 
that is made of brick and of stone has a citadel. But an 
army is not of brick and stone, but is made and com¬ 
posed only of men, of their flesh and bones, their sinews 
and muscles, their brains and hearts. An army has no 
citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered ?” 

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King ?” asked 
Nicholas for the third time. 

Then, seeing that he had a meaning, the King took 
thought; for many minutes he sat in meditation, while 
Nicholas stood in the center of the tent, never moving, 
with his eyes set on the King’s face. 

At last the King answered. 

“An army has a citadel,” he said. “The citadel of an 
army is the stout heart of him who leads it. His heart is 
its citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered ?” 

“You have spoken it. I am answered, O King!” said 
Nicholas, and he turned and went out from the King’s 
tent. 

But the King sprang to his feet with an eager cry. 
“It is not otherwise with a city!” he cried. “And before 
^ I can pass the ramparts of Or, I must carry the citadel!” 


[ 249 ] 




Chapter Three 


OUNTESS RUNA sat in her high chair under 



the emblazoned window of the great hall, with 


her ladies and knights about-her, and one of 
her officers craved leave to bring a prisoner into her 
presence. Leave given, the officer presented his charge 
— a tall and comely young man, standing between two 
guards, yet bearing himself proudly and with a free 
man’s carriage of his head. His hair was dark, his eyes 
blue, his shoulders broad; he was long in the leg and lean 
in the flank. Runa suffered her eyes to glance at him in 
approval. 

“Where did you And him ?” she asked of the officer. 

“He came late last night to the southern gate,” the 
officer answered, “and begged asylum from the anger 
of King Stanislas.” 

“He’s a deserter, then ?” she asked, frowning a little. 

“He has told us nothing. He would tell his story, he 
said, to your Highness only.” 

“Let him speak,” she said, taking a peacock fan from 
one of her ladies and half hiding her face behind it. 

“Speak, prisoner,” said the officer. 

“If I am a prisoner, it is by my own will,” said the 


[ 250 ] 




RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA 
stranger; “but I was in such straits that my will had no 
alternative save to cause me to throw myself on the 
mercy of your Highness. Yet I am no traitor, and wish 
naught but good to my lord King Stanislas.’’ 

“Then you had best wish that he shall return to his 
own city and leave mine alone,” said Runa. 

The knights smiled and the ladies tittered. The 
stranger took no heed of these things, nor, as it seemed, 
of her Highness’ remark. 

“I was high in the King’s confidence,” he said. “He 
deemed me a wise man, and held that I knew all that 
was to be known, and that by my aid alone he could 
discover all that was hidden, and unravel any riddle, 
however difficult. Through three victorious campaigns 
I was by his side, and then he brought me to the walls 
of Or, not doubting that by my valor and counsel he 
should be enabled to make himself master of the city. 
I do not boast. I repeat only what the King has many 
a time said of me, both publicly and when we two were 
alone.” 

“Then one man at least has a good esteem of you,” 
said Runa. “Indeed, as I think, two.” 

Again the ladies tittered and the knights smiled. Cut 
the stranger was unmoved. 

“Then,” he went on in a smooth equable voice whose 
rich tones struck pleasantly on their ears and made the 
ladies sorry for their mocking, “came the day, fatal to 
me, when your Highness was pleased to send his Majesty 
[251 ] 


LOVERS LOGIC 

a message. For when the King asked me the meaning 
of your riddle — asked how a man could carry the cita¬ 
del before he passed the ramparts — I told him to take 
no heed of it, for it was an idle vaunt. And he believed 
me and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And 
in vain brave men died. Again came your message, and 
when the King asked me the meaning of it, I said it was 
insolent defiance. And he believed me, and assaulted 
the ramparts three times in vain. And in vain brave men 
died. Then came the message a third time, and the King 
demanded of me the meaning of it. But I did not know 
the meaning, and, lest more men should die, I confessed 
to him that I could not read the riddle.” 

“You learned wisdom late and at a cost,” said Runa, 
setting her eyes on him over the top of the peacock fan. 

“When I confessed that, he called me a blockhead 
and, with many hard words, told me plainly that all my 
credit stood on my reading him that riddle, and reading 
it, the third time, right; and that if I could not read it, 
I could never see home again nor my own people, but 
that my life must end here outside the walls of the city, 
and end in disgrace and defeat. So the King said to me 
in his wrath, and in fear of him and of the death he 
threatened I stole by night from his camp and delivered 
myself to the otficer of your Highness’ watch at the 
southern gate of the city.” 

“What do you want of me ?” asked Runa. 

“Either the answer to the riddle, that I may carry it 
[ 252 ] 


RIDDLE OP COUNTESS RUNA 

back to the King forthwith and have his favor again 
_» 

“And failing that ?” said Runa, smiling. 

“Leave to abide here for a while, in the hope that by 
my own wit I may discover the meaning. ” 

The knights laughed and murmured scornfully, but 
the ladies, on whom the stranger’s appearance had made 
no small impression, sighed sadly, as though it were 
lamentable to hear a personable brave man ask such 
foolish things. But Runa sank her head in thought. 
When she raised her eyes she met those of the stranger 
fixed full on her. They gleamed blue and keen. A faint 
flush rose on Runa’s cheek — or was it a red light from 
the painted window over her head ? 

“Seven days and seven nights you may abide here/’ 
she said, “but on condition that at the end of that time 
my officers deliver you to your King again. If by then 
you have read the riddle, it will be good for the King and 
for you. But if you have not read it, let it be evil for you 
as for him — evil unto death. How say you ?” 

“I accept the condition, and I will abide,” said the 
stranger. 

Runa signed that he should be led forth. “And leave 
me alone, all of you,” she said. 


[ 253 ] 



Chapter Four 


S EVEN days and seven nights, then, the stranger 
abode in the city. Every day he held speech with 
Runa, both in the great hall, with the ladies 
and the knights, and privately. Much he told her con¬ 
cerning the kingdom and the King, and she showed him 
all the wealth and power of her city. But when she bade 
him speak of himself, he would answer, “I am nothing 
without the King,” and would say no more of himself, 
so that she was full of wonder about him, and pondered 
more and more as to who he was and whence he came. 
And meanwhile the King’s army lay idle in its tents and 


made no assaults on the ramparts. 


I At last, on the third day, she said to him: “Tell me 
Why the King your master leaves all his great kingdom 
'and makes war on my poor city ?” 

■ “The King,” he answered, “makes war that peace 
may come, and union, and power. In three years he has 
brought peace to all the kingdom. This city alone is left, 
a foe set among friends, disobedient among the obe- 
'dient, a weakness amidst that which is strong. Without 
the kingdom the city is nothing, and without the city the 
kinordom is feeble.” 


[ 254 ] 


RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA 

Runa knit her brows and heard him in silence. But 
after a while she said: 

“Had the King sent an embassy to me with these 
words, it may be that I should have listened. But he 
sent me only a summons to surrender.” 

The next day she sent for him again and said: “If 
I give up my city and submit myself to the King, what 
am I then — I who was Runa of Or ?” 

“You will be high in the King’s counsel and in his 
love,” he answered. 

“I do not covet the King’s love,” said Runa, knitting 
her brows again. 

“You do not know what it is, madame,” he said softly. 

On the fifth day she sent for him again, and privately, 
and said to him: 

“If I give up my city and submit myself to the King, 
and there is peace in the kingdom such as there has not 
been since the day my father Count Theobald ruled in 
Or, what will the King do ?” 

“He will enrich the kingdom, and make it fair and 
secure it against all foes.” 

“And what will you do ?” she asked. 

“I shall be by the King’s side,” he answered, “if by 
chance I can give him good counsel.” 

“And he will reward you with high honor ?” 

“All honor is at once mine if I read the riddle,” he 
replied. 

“You have not read it ?” 

[ 255 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“I seek to read it in your eyes,” he answered boldly, 
and Runa turned her glance away from him, lest he 
should read the riddle there. 

On the seventh day, in the evening, she sent for him 
again in secret, unknown to any of her knights or ladies. 
The great hall in which she sat alone was dimly lighted; 
only her face, her fair hair, and her rich robe of white 
gleamed from the gloom. He came and stood before her. 

“To-morrow at sunrise,” she said, “I must deliver 
you to the King your master according to our agree¬ 
ment. What gift do you carry in your hand to turn his 
wrath into favor ?” 

“If I do not bear in my hand the keys of the citadel, 
I bear nothing,” he answered. 

There fell a long silence between them, and the great 
hall was marvelously still. The stranger drew very near to 
Countess Runa and stood by the arm of her high chair. 

“Madame, farewell,” he said. 

She looked up at him and murmured softly: “Fare¬ 
well.” 

“Yet we shall meet again.” 

“When ?” she asked, with lips just parted and eyes 
that strained to see his face. 

“In a day’s time, outside the ramparts.” 

“Outside the ramparts ?” 

“Yes.” He knelt before her and kissed her hand. 
“The citadel of the city is the heart of its mistress,” he 
said. 


[ 256 ] 


RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA 
She rose suddenly to her feet and would have spoken, 
but he raised his hand to impose silence on her. With 
one long look he turned away and left her alone, stand¬ 
ing under the emblazoned window, through which one 
ray-of moonlight caught her fair hair and illumined it. 

She stood with clasped hands, her eyes still set on 
the door by which he had gone out. 

“My heart knows its lord,” she whispered. “I have 
been speaking with my King.” 


[ 257 ] 




Chapter Five 


O N the morrow, in the afternoon, King Stanislas, 
being returned from a journey on which affairs 
of State had called him, and having assumed 
again the command of his army, led it forth in battle 
array, and took up his position in the plain before the 
southern gate, not far from the ramparts of the city. 

“We are going to assault the ramparts again,” said 
an old soldier to Friar Nicholas, who was there to see 
what passed and to exercise his sacred functions in case 
need arose. 

“Nay, I think the King is going to carry the citadel,” 
answered the Friar, with a laugh. And all of them 
laughed, thinking that he jested at the King’s expense. 

As the clock struck four, the King rode forth, mag¬ 
nificently appointed, and bestriding a black war-horse 
of great strength and spirit. When he was two hundred 
yards from the walls, he halted all his army and rode 
forward alone, save for the herald by his side. Coming 
close under the ramparts, which were thronged with 
Countess Runa’s knights and 'men-at-arms, to say 
nothing of those who were ready to pour down stones 
and molten pitch and heavy bars of iron on the assault- 
[ 258 ] 




RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA 
ers, he bade the herald cry that King Stanislas would 
speak with her Highness the Countess Runa. 

Much stir arose on the ramparts at this message, but 
the King sat calm and motionless on his great black 
horse. So passed half-an-hour or so. Then the city gate 
rolled open, and Runa rode forth, in a robe of scarlet, 
seated on a white palfrey, and with all her knights and 
ladies round about her. 

“This is no assault on the ramparts,” said the old 
soldier to Friar Nicholas, grumbling because there was 
danger that he should be balked of a fight. 

“I think you will soon pass them, though,” said 
Nicholas. 

When the King saw Countess Runa he touched his 
horse with the spur and rode up to her where she awaited 
his coming. When she saw him, her eyes brightened to 
a new brilliance. Yet she showed no wonder. 

“My heart knew,” she said, when her ladies and her 
knights marveled. 

King Stanislas saluted her. 

“Whither, my King ?” she asked. 

He leaned down, put his arm about her waist, and 
lifted her from her palfrey. A great shout went up from 
the army in the plain and from the defenders on the walls. 
The King set her in front of him on his great horse. 

“I carry the citadel,” he said. “And now I will pass 
the ramparts”; and they rode together into the city 
amidst mighty rejoicings. 

[ 259 ] 


Chapter Six 


T O which story there are a number of morals quite 
out of proportion to its size. 

This for Kings and Rulers: That they should 
state their objects openly — provided that they wish 
to have them known. 

This for Children: That what their fathers did for 
fifty years, it may be wise for them to cease from doing 
immediately — especially if they wish to make good 
marriages. 

This for Men: That though it be impossible that a 
woman should mean what she says, yet she means some¬ 
thing by what she says — at any rate, if she says it 
three times. 

This for Women: That though the ramparts protect 
the citadel, the citadel may often betray the ramparts. 

And this for Everybody: That he who devotes a good 
intelligence to enlightening others is like unto a man 
who cooks his neighbor’s dinner without being invited 
to table. For when once the citadel was carried, the ram¬ 
parts passed, and the lovers happy, neither King nor 
Countess nor anybody else gave another thought to 
poor Friar Nicholas! 


[ 260 ] 


THE LADY AND THE FLAGON 

DUKE OF BELLEVILLE—which name, 
I by the way, you must pronounce by no means 
according to its spelling, if you would be in the 
fashion; for as Belvoir is Beevor, and Beauchamp 
is Beecham, even so on polite lips Belleville is Bevvle — 
the Duke of Belleville shut the hall door behind him, and 
put his latchkey into the pocket of his trousers. It was 
but ten in the evening, yet the house was as still as 
though it had been two in the morning. All was dark, 
save for a dim jet of gas in the little sitting-room; the 
blinds were all down; from without the villa seemed 
uninhabited, and the rare passer-by — for rare was he 
in the quiet lane adjoining but not facing Hampstead 
Heath — set it down as being to let. It was a whim of 
the Duke’s to keep it empty; when the world bored him, 
he fled there for solitude; not even the presence of a ser¬ 
vant was allowed, kst his meditations should be dis¬ 
turbed. It was long since he had come; but to-night 
weariness had afflicted him, and, by a sudden change of 
plan, he had made for his hiding-place in lieu of attend¬ 
ing a Public Meeting, at which he had been advertised 
[ 261 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

to take the chair. The desertion sat lightly on his con¬ 
science, and he heaved a sigh of relief, as, having turned 
up the gas, he flung himself into an arm-chair and lit a 
cigar. The Duke of Belleville was thirty years of age; 
he was unmarried; he had held the title since he was fif¬ 
teen; he seemed to himself rather old. He was at this 
moment yawning. Now when a man yawns at ten o’clock 
in the evening something is wrong with his digestion or 
his spirits. The Duke had a perfect digestion. 

“I should define wealth,” murmured the Duke, be¬ 
tween his yawns, “as an unlimited command of the 
sources of ennui, rank as a satirical emphasizing of 
human equality, culture as a curtailment of pleasures, 
knowledge as the death of interest.” Yawning again, he 
rose, drew up the blind, and flung open the window. 
The summer night was fine and warm. Although there 
were a couple of dozen other houses scattered here and 
there about the lane, not a soul was to be seen. The 
Duke stood for a long while looking out. His cigar burned 
low and he flung it away. Presently he heard a church 
clock strike eleven. At the same moment he perceived a 
tall and burly figure approaching from the end of the 
lane. Its approach was slow and interrupted, for it 
paused at every house. A moment’s further inspection 
revealed in it a policeman on his beat. 

“He’s trying the windows and doors,” remarked the 
Duke to himself. Then his eyes brightened. “There are 
possibilities in a door always,” he murmured, and his 
[262 ] 


LADY AND THE FLAGON 
thoughts flew off to the great doors of history and fic¬ 
tion — the doors that were locked when by all laws 
human and divine they should have been open, and the 
even more interesting doors that proved to be open and 
yielded to pressure when any man would have staked 
his life on their being bolted, barred, and impregnable. 
“A door has the interest of death,” said he. “For how 
can you know what is on the other side till you have 
passed through it ? Now suppose that fellow found a 
door open, and passed through it, and turning the rays 
of his lantern on the darkness within, saw revealed to 
him — “Heavens!” cried the Duke, interrupting him¬ 
self in great excitement, “is all this to be wasted op a 
policeman ?” And without a moment’s hesitation, he 
leaned out of the window and shouted, “Constable, con¬ 
stable !” — which is, as all the world knows, the politest 
mode of addressing a policeman. 

The policeman, perceiving the Duke and the urgency 
of the Duke’s summons, left his examination of the 
doors in the lane and ran hastily up to the window of 
the villa. 

“Did you call, sir ?” he asked. 

“Don’t you know me ?” inquired the Duke, turning 
a little, so that the light within the room should fall on 
his features. 

“I beg your Grace’s pardon,” cried the policeman. 
“Your Grace gave me a sovereign last Christmas. The 
Duke of Belle-ville, isn’t it, your Grace ?” 

[ 263 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“You will know,” said the Duke patiently, “how to 
pronounce my name when I tell you that it rimes with 
‘Devil.’ Thus: ‘Devvle, Bevvle.’ ” 

“Yes, your Grace. You called me ?” 

“I did. Do you often find doors open when they ought 
to be shut ?” 

“Almost every night, your Grace.” 

“What do you do ?” 

“Knock, your Grace.” 

“Good heavens,” murmured the Duke, “how this 
man throws away his opportunities!” Then he leaned 
forward, and laying his hand on the policeman’s shoulder 
drew him nearer, and began to speak to him in a low tone. 

“I couldn’t, your Grace,” urged the policeman. “If 
‘ I was found out I should get the sack.” 

“You should come to no harm by that.” 

“And if your Grace was found out-” 

“You can leave that to me,” interrupted the Duke. 

Presently the policeman, acting on the Duke’s invita¬ 
tion, climbed into the window of the villa, and the con¬ 
versation was continued across the table. The Duke 
urged, produced money, gave his word to be respon¬ 
sible for the policeman’s future; the policeman’s resist¬ 
ance grew less strong. 

“I am about your height and build,” said the Duke. 
“It is })ut for a few hours, and you can spend them very 
comfortably in the kitchen. Before six o’clock I will be 
back.” 



LADY AND THE FLAGON 
“If the Inspector comes round, your Grace ?” 

“You must take a little risk for twenty pounds,” the 
Duke reminded him. 

The struggle could end but one way, A quarter of an 
hour later the policeman, attired in the Duke’s overcoat, 
sat by the kitchen hearth, while the Duke, equipped in 
the policeman’s garments, prepared to leave the house 
and take his place on the beat. 

“I shall put out all lights and shut the door,” said 
he. “The window of this kitchen looks out to the back, 
and you will not be seen. You will particularly oblige 
me by remaining here, and taking no notice of anything 
that may occur till I return and call you.” 

“But, your Grace, if there’s murder done-” 

“We can hardly expect that,” interrupted the Duke, 
a little wistfully. Yet, although, remembering how the 
humdrum permeates life, he would not pitch his antici¬ 
pations too high, the Duke started on the expedition 
with great zest and lively hopes. The position he had 
assumed, the mere office that he discharged vicariously, 
seemed to his fancy a conductor that must catch and 
absorb the lightning of adventurous incident. His big- 
buttoned coat, his helmet, the lantern he carried, his 
deftly hidden truncheon, combined to make him the 
center of anything that might move, and to involve him 
in coils of crime or of romance. He refused to be dis¬ 
appointed although he tried a dozen doors and found 
all securely fastened. For never till the last, till fortune 
[ 2G5 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

was desperate and escape a vanished dream, was wont 
to come that marvelous Door that gaped open-mouthed. 
Ah ! The Duke started violently, the blood rushing to his 
face and his heart beating quick. Here, at the end of the 
lane most remote from his own villa, at a small two- 
storied house bright with green paint and flowering 
creepers, here, in the most unlikely, most inevitable 
place, was the open door. Barred ? It was not even shut, 
but hung loose, swaying gently to and fro, with a sub¬ 
dued bang at each encounter with the doorpost. With¬ 
out a moment’s hesitation the Duke pushed it open. 
He stood in a dark passage. He turned the glare of his 
bull’s-eye on the gloom, which melted as the column of 
light pierced it, and he saw- 

“There is nothing at all,” said the Duke of Belleville 
with a sigh. 

Nor, indeed, was there, save an umbrella-rack, a hat- 
stand, and an engraving of the Queen’s Coronation — 
things which had no importance for the Duke. 

“They are only what one might expect,” said he. 

Yet he persevered and began to mount the stairs with 
a silent, cautious tread. He had not felt it necessary to 
put on the policeman’s boots, and his thin-soled, well- 
made boots neither creaked nor crunched as he climbed, 
resting one hand on the balustrade and holding his 
lantern in the other. Yet suddenly something touched 
his hand, and a bell rang out, loud, clear and tinkling. 
A moment later came a scream; the Duke paused in 
[ 266 ] 



LADY AND THE FLAGON 
>ome bewilderment. Then lie mounted a few more 
steps till he was on the landing. A door to his right 
was cautiously opened; an old gentleman’s head 
appeared. 

“Thank heaven, it’s the police!” cried the old gentle¬ 
man. Then he pulled his head in and said, “Only the 
police, my dear.” Then he put his hand out again and 
asked, “What in the world is the matter ? I thought you 
were burglars when I heard the alarm.” 

“Your hall door was standing open,” said the Duke 
accusingly. 

“Tut, tut, tut! How very careless of me, to be sure! 
And I thought I locked it! Actually open! Dear me! 
I’m much obliged to you.” 

A look of disappointment had by now spread over the 
Duke’s face. 

“Didn’t you leave it open on purpose ?” he asked. 
“Come now! You can trust me.” 

“On purpose ? Do you take me for a fool ?” cried the 
old gentleman. 

“A man who leaves his door open on purpose may or 
may not be a fool,” said the Duke. “But there is no 
doubt about a man who leaves it open without a pur¬ 
pose,” and, so saying, the Duke turned, walked down¬ 
stairs, and, going out, slammed the door behind him. 
He was deeply disgusted. 

When, however, he had recovered a little from his 
chagrin, he began to pace up and dpwn the lane. It was 
[267] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

now past midnight, and all was very quiet. The Duk^ 
began to fear that Fortune, never weary of tormenting 
him, meant to deny all its interest to his experiment. 
But suddenly, when he was exactly opposite his own 
house, he observed a young man standing in front of it. 
The stranger was tall and well made; he wore a black 
cloth Inverness, which, hanging open at the throat, 
showed a white tie and a snowy shirt front. The young 
man seemed to be gazing thoughtfully at the Duke’s 
villa. The Duke walked quietly up to him, as though he 
meant to pass by. The young man, however,, perceiving 
him, turned to him and said: 

“It’s very annoying, but I have lost my latchkey^nd 
I don’t know how to get into my house.” 

“Indeed, sir?” said the Duke sympathetically. 
“Which is your house ?” 

“This,” answered the young man, pointing to the 
Duke’s villa. 

The Duke could not entirely repress a slight move¬ 
ment of surprise and pleasure. 

“This your house ? Then you are — ?” he began. 

“Yes, yes, the Duke of Belleville,” interrupted the 
young man. “But there’s nobody in the house. I’m not 
expected-” 

“I suppose not,” murmured the Duke. 

“There are no servants, and I don’t know how to get 
in. It’s very awkward, because I’m expecting a — a 
friend to call.” 

[268 ] 



LADY AND THE FLAGON 

“With my assistance,” said the Duke deferentially, 
“your Grace might effect an entry by the window.” 

“True!” cried the young man. “Bring your lantern 
and give me a light. Look here, I don’t want this talked 
about.” 

“It is a matter quite between ourselves, your Grace,” 
the Duke assured him, as he led the way to the 
window. 

“By-the-by, you might help me in another matter if 
you like. I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“I shall be very glad,” said the Duke. 

“Could you be spared from your beat for an hour ?” 

“It might be possible.” 

^‘'Good. Come in with me, and we’ll talk it over.” 

The Duke had by this time opened the window of his 
villa; he gave the young man a leg-up, and afterwards 
climbed in himself. 

“Shut the window again,” commanded the stranger. 
“Oh, and you might as well just close the shutters.” 

“Certainly, your Grace,” said the Duke, and he did 
as he was bid. 

The young man began to move round the room, exam¬ 
ining the articles that furnished the side-tables and 
decorated the walls. The Duke of Belleville had been 
for a year or two an eager collector of antique plate, 
and had acquired some fine specimens in both gold and 
silver. Some of these were now in the villa, and the young 
man scrutinized them with close attention. 

[269] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Dear me,” said he in a vexed tone, as he returned to 
the hearth, “I thought the Queen Bess flagon was here. 
Surely I sent it here from Belleville Castle!” 

The Duke smiled; the Queen Bess flagon haa never 
been at Belleville Castle, and it was now in a small 
locked cabinet which stood on the mantelpiece. He 
made no remark; a suspicion had begun to take shape 
in his mind concerning this strange visitor. Two thousand 
seven hundred and forty guineas was the price* that he 
had paid for the Queen Bess flagon; all tne other speci¬ 
mens in the little room, taken together, might be worth 
perhaps a quarter as much. 

“Your Grace spoke of some other matter in which 
I might assist you ?” he suggested, for the young man 
seemed to have fallen in?to a reverie. 

“Why, yes. As I tell you, I expect a friend; and it 
looks very absurd to have no servant. You’re sure to 
find a suit of dress clothes in my bedroom. Pray put 
them on and represent my valet. You can resume your 
uniform afterwards.” 

The Duke bowed and left the room. The moment the 
door closed behind him he made the best of his way to 
the kitchen. A few words were enough to impart his 
suspicions to the policeman. A daring and ingenious 
scheme was evidently on foot, its object being the theft 
of the Queen Bess flagon. Even now, unless they acted 
quickly, the young man might lay hands on the cabinet 
in which the treasure lay and be off with it. In a triee 
[ 270 ] 


LADY AND THE FLAGON 
the Duke had discarded the police uniform, its rightful 
owner had resumed it, and the Duke was again in the 
convenient black suit which befits any man, be he duke 
or valet. Then the kitchen window was cautiously 
opened, and the policeman crawled silently round to 
the front of the house; here he lay in waiting for a sum¬ 
mons or for the appearance of a visitor. The Duke re¬ 
turned immediately to the sitting-room. 

On entering, he perceived the young man standing 
in front of the locked cabinet, and regarding it with a 
melancholy air. The Duke’s appearance roused him, 
and he glanced with visible surprise at the distinguished 
and aristocratic figure which the supposed policeman 
presented. But he made no comment and his first words 
were about the flagon. 

“Now I come to remember,” said he, “I put the Queen 
Bess flagon in this cabinet. It must be so, although, as 
I have left my key at my rooms, in St. James’ Street, I 
can’t satisfy myself on the point.” 

The Duke, now perfectly convinced of the character 
of his visitor, waited only to see him lay his hands on 
the cabinet. Such an action would be the signal for his 
instant arrest. But before the young man had time 
either to speak again or to put out his hand toward the 
cabinet, there came the sound of wheels quickly ap¬ 
proaching the villa. A moment later a neat brougham 
rolled up to the door. The young man darted to tlie 
wind^'w, tore open the shutters, and looked out. The 
[271 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Duke, suspecting the arrival of confederates, turned 
toward the cabinet and took his stand in front of it. 

“Go and open the door,” ordered the young man, 
turning round. “Don’t keep the lady waiting outside 
at this time of night.” 

Curiosity conquered prudence; the Duke set more 
value on a night’s amusement than on the Queen Bess 
flagon. He went obediently and opened the door of the 
villa. On the step stood a young and very handsome 
girl. Great agitation was evident in her manner. 

“Is — is the Duke here ?” she asked. 

“Yes, madame. If I lead you to the sitting-room, you 
will find him there,” answered the Duke gravely; and 
with a bow he preceded her along the passage. 

When they reached the room, the lady, passing by 
him, darted forward and flung herself affectionately into 
the young man’s arms. He greeted her with equal 
warmth, while the Duke stood in the doorway in some 
natural embarrassment. 

“I escaped so successfully!” cried the lady. “My aunt 
went to bed at eleven; so did I. At twelve I got up and 
dressed. Not a soul heard me come down-stairs, and the 
brougham was waiting at the door just as you said.” 

“My darling!” murmured the young man fondly. 
“Now, indeed, is our happiness certain. By to-morrow 
morning we shall be safe from all pursuit.” Then he 
turned to the Duke. “I need not tell you,” said he, “that 
you must observe silence on this matter. Oblige me now 

[m] 


LADY AND THE FLAGON 

by going to my room and packing a bag; you’ll know 
what I shall want for two or three days; I can give you a 
quarter of an hour.” 

The Duke stood in momentary hesitation. He was 
bewildered at the sudden change in the position caused 
by the appearance of this girl. Was he assisting, then, 
not at a refined and ingenious burglary, but at another 
kind of trick ? The disguise assumed by the young man 
might have for its object the deception of a trustful girl, 
and not an abduction of the Queen Bess flagon. 

“Well, why don’t you obey ?” asked the young man 
sharply; and, stepping up to the Duke, he thrust a ten- 
pound note into his hand, whispering, “Play your part, 
and earn your money, you fool.” 

The Duke lingered no longer. Leaving the room, he 
walked straight, rapidly, and with a firm tread, up¬ 
stairs. When he reached the top he paused to listen. 
All was still! Stay! A moment later he heard a slight 
noise — the noise of some metal instrument turning, 
proceeding from the room which he had just left. The 
Duke sat down on the landing and took off his boots. 
Then with silent feet he crept cautiously down-stairs 
again. He paused to listen for an instant outside the 
sitting-room door. Voices were audible, but he could 
not hear the words. The occupants of the room were 
moving about. He heard a low amused laugh. Tnen he 
pursued his way to the hall door. He had not completely 
closed it after admitting the lady, and he now slippedi| 
[ 273 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

out without a sound. The brougham stood in front of 
the door. The Duke dodged behind it, and the driver, 
who was leaning forward on his seat, did not see him. 
The next moment he was crouching down by the side 
of his friend the policeman, waiting for the next develop¬ 
ment in the plot of this comedy, or crime, or whatever 
it might turn out to be. He put out his hand and touched 
his ally. To his amusement the man, sitting there on the 
ground, had fallen fast asleep. 

“Another proof,” mused the Duke in whimsical de¬ 
spair, “that it is impossible to make any mode of life per¬ 
manently interesting. How this fellow would despise the 
state of excitement which I, for the moment, am so 
fortunate as to enjoy! Well, I won’t wake him unless 
need arises.” 

For some little while nothing happened. The police¬ 
man slept on, and the driver of the brougham seemed 
sunk in meditation, unless, indeed, he also were drowsy. 
The shutters of the sitting -room were again closely shut, 
and no sound came from behind them. The Duke 
crouched motionless but keenly observant. 

Then the hall door creaked. The policeman snored 
quietly, but the Duke leaned eagerly forward, and the 
driver of the brougham suddenly sat up quite straight, 
and grasped his reins more firmly. The door was cau¬ 
tiously opened: the lady and the young man appeared 
on the threshold. The young man glanced up and down 
the lane; then he walked quickly toward the brougham, 
[ 274 ] 


LADY AND THE FLAGON 
and opened the door. The lady followed him. As she 
went she passed within four or five feet of where the 
Duke lay hidden. And, as she went by, the Duke saw — 
what he half-expeeted, yet what he could but half- 
believe — the gleam of the gold of the Queen Bess 
flagon, which shfe held in her gloved hands. 

As has been hinted, the Duke attached no supersti¬ 
tious value to this article. The mad fever of the collector 
had left him long ago; but amidst the death of other 
emotions and more recondite prejudices there survives 
in the heart of man the primitive dislike of being “done.” 
It survived in the mind of the Duke of Belleville, and 
sprang to strong and sudden activity when he observed 
his Queen Bess flagon in the hands of the pretty un¬ 
known lady. 

With a sudden and vigorous spring he was upon her; 
with a roughness which the Duke trusted that the 
occasion to some extent excused, he seized her arm with 
one hand, and with the other violently twisted the Queen 
Bess flagon out of her grasp. A loud cry rang from her 
lips. The driver threw down the reins and leaped from 
his seat. The young man turned with an oath and made 
for the Duke. The Duke of Belleville, ignoring the mere 
prejudice which forbids timely retreat, took to his heels, 
hugging the Queen Bess flagon to his breast, and head¬ 
ing, in his silk socks, as hard and as straight as he could 
for Hampstead Heath. After him pell-mell came the 
young man, the driver, and the lady, amazed, doubtless, 
[ 275 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

at the turn of events, but resolved on the recapture of the 
flagon. And just as their figures vanished round the 
corner, the policeman rubbed his eyes and looked round, 
exclaiming, ^‘What’s the row ?” 

In after days the Duke of Belleville was accustomed 
to count his feelings as he fled barefooted (for what 
protection could silk socks afford ?) across Hampstead 
Heath, with three incensed pursuers on his track, among 
the keenest sensations of his life. The exhilaration of the 
night air and the chances of the situation in which he 
found himself combined to produce in him a remark¬ 
able elation of spirits. He laughed as he ran, till shorten¬ 
ing breath warned him against such extravagant w^asting 
of his resources; then he settled down to a steady run, 
heading across the Heath, up and down, over dip and 
hillock. Yet he did not distance the pack. He heard them 
close behind him; a glance round showed him that the 
lady was well up with her friends, in spite of the impedi¬ 
ment of her skirts. The Duke began to pant; his feet had 
grown sore and painful; he looked round for a refuge. 
To his delight he perceived, about a hundred yards to 
his right, a small and picturesque red-brick house. It 
was now between one and two o’clock, but he did not 
hesitate. Resolving to appeal to the hospitality of this 
house, hoping, it may be, again to find a door left open, 
he turned sharp to the right, and with a last spurt made 
for his haven. 

Fate seemed indeed kind to him; the door was not 

[ 276 ] 


LADY AND THE FLAGON 
only unbarred, it stood ajar. The Duke’s pursuers were 
even now upon him; they were no more than five or 
six yards behind when he reached the little red-tiled 
porch and put out his hand to push the door back. 

But at the same instant the door was pulled open, and 
a burly man appeared on the threshold. He wore a frock- 
coat embellished with black braid and a peaked cap. 
The Duke at once recognized in him an inspector of 
police. Evidently he was, when surprised by the Duke’s 
arrival, about to sally out on his round. The Duke 
stopped and, between his pants, made shift to address 
the welcome ally; but before he could get a word out the 
young man was upon him. 

“Inspector,” said the young man in the most com¬ 
posed manner, “I give this fellow in charge for stealing 
my property.” 

“I saw him take the tankard,” observed the driver, 
pointing toward the Queen Bess flagon. 

The lady said nothing but stood by the young man, 
as though ready with her testimony in case it were 
needed. 

The Inspector turned curious eyes on the Duke of 
Belleville; then he addressed the young man respect¬ 
fully. 

“May I ask, sir, who you are ?” 

“I am the Duke of Belleville,” answered the young 
man. 

“The Duke of Belle-ville!” cried the Inspector, his 

[ 277 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

manner showing an increased deference. “I beg your 
Grace’s-” 

“The name,” said the Duke, “is pronounced Bevvle — 
to rime with devil.” 

The Inspector looked at him scornfully. 

“Your turn will come, my man,” said he, and, turn¬ 
ing again to the young man, he continued: “Do you 
charge him with stealing this cup ?” 

“Certainly I do.” 

“Do you know who he is ?” 

“I imagine you do,” said the young man, with a laugh. 
“He’s one of your own policeman.” 

The Inspector stepped back and turned up the gas 
in his passage. Then he scrutinized the Duke’s features. 

“One of my men ?” he cried. “Your Grace is mis¬ 
taken. I have never seen the man.” 

“Yes, yes,” cried the young man, and, in his eager¬ 
ness to convince the Inspector, he stepped forward, 
until his face fell within the range of the passage light. 
As this happened, the Inspector gave a loud cry: 

“Hallo, Joe Simpson!” And he sprang at the young 
man. The latter did not wait for him: without a word 
he turned; the Inspector rushed forward, the young man 
made for the Heath, and the driver, after standing for a 
moment apparently bewildered, faced about, and made 
off in the opposite direction to that chosen by his com¬ 
panion. The three were thirty yards away before the 
Duke of Belleville could realize what had happened. 

[ 278 ] 



LADY AND THE FLAGON 
Then he perceived that he stood in the passage of the 
Inspector’s house, alone save for the presence of the 
young lady, who faced him with an astonished expres¬ 
sion on her pretty countenance. 

“It is altogether a very remarkable night,” observed 
the Duke. 

“It is impossible that you should be more puzzled 
than I am,” said the young lady. 

“Excuse me,” said the Duke, “but you run very well.’^ 

“I belonged to my college football club,” said the 
young lady modestly. 

“Precisely!” cried the Duke. “I suppose this door 
leads to our good friend’s parlor. Shall we sit down while 
you tell me all about it ? I must ask you to excuse the 
condition of my feet.” 

Thus speaking, the Duke led the way into the In¬ 
spector’s parlor. Placing the Queen Bess flagon on the 
table, he invited the lady to be seated, and took a chair 
himself. Perceiving that she was somewhat agitated, he 
provided her with an interval in which to regain her 
composure by narrating to her the adventures of the 
evening. She heard him with genuine astonishment. 

“Do 3'OU say that you are the Duke of Belleville ?” 
she cried. 

“Don’t I look like it ?” asked the Duke, smiling, but 
at the same time concealing his feet under the Inspec¬ 
tor’s dining-table. 

“But he — he said he was the Duke.” 

[ 279 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“He said so to me also,” observed the Duke of Belle¬ 
ville. 

The lady looked at him long and keenly; there was, 
however, a simple honesty about the Duke’s manner 
that attracted her sympathy and engaged her confidence. 

“Perhaps I’d better tell you all about it,” said she, 
with a sigh. 

“Not unless you desire to do so, I beg,” said the Duke, 
with a wave of his hand. 

“I am nineteen,” began the lady. The Duke heaved 
an envious sigh. “I live with my aunt,” she continued. 
“We live a very retired life. Since I left college — which 
I did prematurely owing to a difference of opinion with 
the Principal — I have seen hardly any one. In the 
course of a visit to the seaside I met the gentleman 
who — who-” 

“From whom we have just parted ?” suggested the 
Duke. 

“Thank you, yes. Not to w^eary you with details- 

“Principles weary me, but not details,” interposed 
the Duke. 

“In fact,” continued the young lady, “he professed 
to be in love with me. Now my aunt, although not in¬ 
sensible to the great position which he offered me (for 
of course he represented himself as the Duke of Belle¬ 
ville) entertains the opinion that no girl should marry 
till she is twenty-one. Moreover she considered that the 
acquaintance was rather short.” 

[ 280 ] 




LADY AND THE FLAGON 

“May I ask when you first met the gentleman ?” 

“Last Monday week. So she forbade the marriage. 
I am myself of an impatient disposition.” 

“So am I,” observed the Duke of Belleville, and in 
the interest of the discussion he became so forgetful as 
to withdraw his feet from the shelter of the table and 
cross one leg comfortably over the other. “So am I,” 
he repeated, nodding his head. 

“I therefore determined to live my own life in my 
own way-” 

“I think you said you had been to college ?” 

“Yes, but I had a difference of-” 

“Quite so. Pray proceed,” said the Duke courteously. 

“And to run away with my fiance. In pursuance of 
this plan, I arranged to meet him to-night at his villa 
at Hampstead. He sent a brougham to fetch me, I made 
my escape successfully, and the rest you know. ” 

“Pardon me, but up to this point the part played by 
the flagon which you see on the table before you is some¬ 
what obscure.” 

“Oh, when you’d gone to pack his things, he took 
out a curious little instrument — he said he had for¬ 
gotten his key — and opened the cabinet on the mantel¬ 
piece. Then he took out that pretty mug and gave it to 
me as my wedding present. He told me that it was very 
valuable, and he would carry it for me himself, but I 
declared that I must carry it for myself or I wouldn’t 

go. So he let me. And then you-” 

[ 281 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“The whole thing is perfectly plain,” declared the 
Duke with emphasis. “You, inadame, have been the 
victim of a most dastardly and cold-blooded plot. This 
fellow is a swindler. I daresay he wanted to get hold of 
you, and thus extort money from your aunt, but his 
main object was no other than to carry off the famous 
cup which you see before you — the Queen Bess 
flagon.” And the Duke, rising to his feet, began to walk 
up and down in great indignation. “He meant to kill 
two birds with one stone!” said he, in mingled anger 
and admiration. 

“It is pretty!” said the young lady, taking up the 
flagon. “Oh, what is this figure ?” 

The Duke, perceiving that the lady desired an ex¬ 
planation, came and leaned over her chair. She turned 
her face up to his in innocent eagerness; the Duke could 
not avoid observing that she had very fine eyes. Without 
making any comment on the subject, however, he leaned 
a little lower and began to explain the significance of 
the figure on the Queen Bess flagon. 

The Duke has been known to say that, in a world so 
much the sport of chance as ours, there was no reason 
why he should not have fallen in love with the young 
lady and offered to make her in very truth what she had 
dreamed of becoming — the Duchess of Belleville. 

Her eyes were very fine, her manner frank and en¬ 
gaging. Moreover the Duke hated to see people dis¬ 
appointed. Thus the thing might just as well have 
[ 282 ] 


LADY AND THE FLAGON 
happened as not. And on so narrow a point did the issue 
stand that to this day certain persons declare that it — 
or part of it — did happen; for why, and on what 
account, they ask, should an experienced connoisseur 
(and such undoubtedly was the Duke of Belleville) pre¬ 
sent a young lady previously unknown to him (or, for 
the matter of that, any young lady at all, whether known 
or not known to him) with such a rare, costly, and pre¬ 
cious thing as the Queen Bess flagon ? For the fact is — 
let the meaning and significance of the fact be what they 
will — that when the young lady, gazing fondly the 
while on the flagon, exclaimed, “I never really cared 
about him much, but I should have liked the beautiful 
flagon!” the Duke answered (he was still leaning over 
her chair, in order the better to explain and trace the 
figure on the flagon): 

“Of him you are well rid. But permit me to request 
your acceptance of the flagon. The real Duke of Belle¬ 
ville, madame, must not be outdone by his counterfeit.” 

“Really ?” cried the young lady. 

“Of course,” murmured the Duke, delighted with the 
pleasure which he saw in her eyes. 

The young lady turned a most grateful and almost 
affectionate glance on the Duke. Although ignorant of 
the true value of the Queen Bess flagon, she was aware 
that the Duke had made her a very handsome present. 

“Thank you,” said she, putting her hands into the 
Duke’s. 


[ 283 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

At this moment a loud and somewhat strident voice 
proceeded from the door of the room. 

“Well, I never! And how did you come here ?” 

The Duke, looking round, perceived a stout woman, 
clad in a black petticoat and a woolen shawl; her arms 
were akimbo. 

“We came in, madame,” said he, rising and bowing, 
“by the hall door, which we chanced to find open.” 

The stout woman appeared to be at a loss for words. 
At length, however, she gasped out: 

“Be off with you. Don’t let the Inspector catch you 
here!” 

The Duke looked doubtfully at the young lady. 

“The woman probably misunderstands,” he mur¬ 
mured. The young lady blushed slightly. The Inspec¬ 
tor’s wife advanced with a threatening demeanor. 

“Who are you ?” she asked abruptly. 

“I, madame,” began the Duke, “am the-” 

“I don’t see that it matters who we are,” interoosed 
the young lady. 

“Possibly not,” admitted the Duke, with a smile. 

The young lady rose, went to a little mirror that hung 
on the wall, and adjusted the curls which appeared from 
under the brim of her hat. 

“Dear me,” said she, turning round with a sigh, “it 
must be nearly three o’clock, and my aunt always likes 
me to be in before daybreak.” 

The stout woman gasped again. 

[ 284 ] 



LADY AND THE FLAGON 

“Because of the neighbors, you know,” said the young 
lady with a smile. 

“Just so,” assented the Duke, and possibly he would 
have added more, had not the woman uttered an in¬ 
articulate cry and pointed to his feet. 

“Really, madame,” remarked the Duke, with some 
warmth, “it would have been in better taste not to refer 
to the matter.” And with a severe frown he offered his 
arm to the young lady. They then proceeded toward the 
doorway. The Inspector’s wife barred the passage. The 
Duke assumed a most dignified air. The woman reluct¬ 
antly gave way. Walking through the passage, the 
young lady and the Duke found themselves again in 
the open air. There were signs of approaching dawn. 

“I really think I had better get home,” whispered the 
young lady. 

At this moment — and the Duke was not in the least 
surprised — they perceived four persons approaching 
them. The Inspector walked with his arm through the 
arm of the young man who had claimed to be the Duke 
of Belleville; following, arm-in-arm with the driver of 
the brougham, came the policeman whose uniform the 
Duke had borrowed. All the party except the Inspector 
looked uneasy. The Inspector appeared somewhat 
puzzled. However he greeted the Duke with a cry of wel¬ 
come. 

“Now we can find out the truth of it all!” he ex¬ 
claimed. 


[ 285 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“To find out truth,” remarked the Duke, “is never 
easy and not always desirable.” 

“I understand that you are the Duke of Belleville?” 
asked the Inspector, 

“Certainly,” said the Duke. 

“Bosh!” s^^id the young man. “Oh, you know me. 
Inspector Collins, and I know you, and I’m not going 
to try and play it on you any more. But this chap’s no 
more the Duke than I am, and I should have thought 
you might have known one of your own policemen!” 

The Inspector turned upon him fiercely. 

“None of your gab, Joe Simpson,” said he. Then 
turning to the Duke, he continued, “Do you charge the 
young woman with him, your Grace ?” And he pointed 
significantly to the Queen Bess flagon, which the young 
lady carried in an affectionate grasp. 

“This lady,” said the Duke, “has done me the honor 
of accepting a small token of my esteem. As for these 
men, I know nothing about them.” And he directed a 
significant glance at the young man. The young man 
answered his look. The policeman seemed to grow more 
easy in his mind. “Then you don’t charge any of them ?” 
cried the Inspector, bewildered. 

“Why, no,” answered the Duke. “And I suppose they 
none of them charge me ?” 

Nobody spoke. The Inspector took out a large red 
handkerchief and mopped his brow. 

“Well, it beats me,” he said. “I know prettv well what 

[ 286 ] 


LADY AND THE FLAGON 
these two men are; but if your Grace don’t charge ’em, 
what can I do 

“Nothing, I should suppose,” said the Duke blandly. 
And, with a slight bow, he proceeded on his way, the 
young lady accompanying him. Looking back once, he 
perceived the young man and the driver of the brougliam 
going off in another direction with quick furtive steps, 
while the Inspector and the policeman stood talking 
together outside the door of the house. 

“The circumstances, as a whole, no doubt appear 
peculiar to the Inspector,” observed the Duke, with a 
smile. 

“Do you think that we can find a hansom cab ?” 
asked the young lady a little anxiously. “You see, my 
aunt-” 

“Precisely,” said the Duke, and he quickened his pace. 

They soon reached the boundary of the Heath, and, 
having walked a little way along the road, were so 
fortunate as to find a cab. The young lady held out her 
left hand to the Duke: in her right she still grasped 
firmly the Queen Bess flagon. 

“Good-by,” she said. “Thank you for the beautiful 
present.” 

The Duke took her hand and allowed his glance to 
rest for a moment on her face. She appeared to see a 
question in his eyes. 

“Yes, and for rescuing me from that man,” she added 
with a little shudder. 


[ 287 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

The Duke’s glance still rested on her face. 

“Yes, and for lots of fun,” she whispered with a 
blush. 

The Duke looked away, sighed, released her hand, 
helped her into the cab, and retired to a distance of some 
yards. The young lady spoke a few words to the cabman, 
took her seat, waved a small hand, held up the Queen 
Bess flagon, kissed it, and drove away. 

“If,” observed the Duke with a sigh, “I were not a 
well-bred man, I should have asked her name,” and he 
made his way back to his house in a somewhat pensive 
mood. 

On reacning home, however, he perceived the broug¬ 
ham standing before his door. A new direction was thus 
given to his meditations. He opened the gate of his stable- 
yard, and, taking the horse’s head, led it in. Having 
unharnessed it, he put it in the stable and fed and 
watered it; the brougham he drew into the coach¬ 
house. Then he went indoors, partook of some brandy 
mixed with water, and went to bed. 

At eleven o’clock the next morning Frank, the Duke’s 
man, came up to Hampstead to attend to his Grace’s 
wants. The Duke was still in bed, but, on breakfast 
being ready, he rose and came down-stairs in his dress¬ 
ing-gown and a pair of large and very easy slippers. 

“I hope your Grace slept well ?” said Frank. 

“I never passed a better night, thank j^ou, Frank/’ 
said the Duke as he chipped the top off his egg. 

[ 288 ] 


LADY AND THE FLAGON 

“Half-an-hour ago, your Grace,” Frank continued, 
“a man called.” 

“To see me ?” 

“It was about — about a brougham, your Grace. ” 

“Ah! What did you say to him ?” 

“I said I had no orders about a brougham from your 
Grace.” 

“Quite right, Frank, quite right,” said the Duke with 
a smile. “What did he say to that ?” 

“He appeared to be put out, but said that he would 
call again, your Grace.” 

“Very good,” said the Duke, rising and lighting a cig¬ 
arette. 

Frank lingered uneasily near the door. 

“Is anything the matter, Frank ?” asked the Duke 
kindly. 

“Well, your Grace, in — in point of fact, there is — 
there is a strange brougham and a strange horse in the 
stables, your Grace.” 

“In what respect,” asked the Duke, “are the broug¬ 
ham and the horse strange, Frank ?” 

“I — I should say, your Grace, a brougham and a 
horse that I have not seen before in your Grace’s 
stables.” 

“That is a very different thing, Frank,” observed the 
Duke with a patient smile. “I suppose that I am at 
liberty to acquire a brougham and a horse if it occurs 
to me to do so ?” 


[ 289 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Of course, your Grace,” stammered Frank. 

“I will drive into town in that brougham to-day, 
Frank,” said the Duke. 

Frank bowed and withdrew. The Duke strolled to 
the window and stood looking out as he smoked his 
cigarette. 

“I don’t think the man will call again,” said he. 
Then he drew from his pocket the ten-pound note that 
the young man had given him, and regarded it thought¬ 
fully. “A brougham, a horse, ten pounds, and a very 
diverting experience,” he mused. “Yes, I am better in 
spirits this morning!” 

As for the Queen Bess flagon, he appeared to have 
forgotten all about it. 


[ 290 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 


Chapter One 

T he Duke of Belleville (nothing annoyed his 
Grace more than to hear his name mispro¬ 
nounced — it should sound “Bevvle”) was 
tired of it all. That succinctly expresses his condition; 
and the condition is really not to be wondered at after 
fifteen years of an existence such as his, although it is 
true that he had occasionally met with some agreeable 
and even some unexpected adventures. He wanted a 
new sensation, a new experience, a new environment, 
although it was possible that he would not want any 
of them for very long. He consulted his man Frank on 
the matter one evening at dinner. 

“When I felt like that as a lad, your Grace,” Frank 
remarked, “my father used to put me to digging.” 

“Excellent, Frank! Buy me a laborer’s allotment 
to-morrow morning.” 

“Very good, your Grace,” said Frank. 

He was an invaluable servant, although at times, the 
Duke would complain, lacking in imagination. 

[ 291 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Have you got it, Frank ?” said the Duke the next 
morning at lunch. 

“Yes, your Grace. And I thought it well also to ob¬ 
tain a cottage.” 

“Very thoughtful! Clothes ?” 

“I thought that perhaps your Grace would prefer to 
give you personal-” 

“Quite right, Frank. I’ll go to Clarkson’s to-morrow.” 

“I beg your Grace’s pardon — am I to accompari}?- 
your Grace ?” 

“I do not propose to dig all night, nor even after 
sunset. Men on allotments eat, I am given to suppose!” 

“I beg your Grace’s pardon.” 

“Never mind, Frank. In the evening we shall be as 
usual. Give the necessary orders. Neither you nor the 
chef will, of course, be visible.” 

“Very good, your Grace.” Frank placed the coffee 
and old brandy on the table, and withdrew. 

The next morning the Duke repaired to Wardour 
Street and mentioned something about private theatri¬ 
cals. The suave and accomplished proprietor was fertile 
in suggestion. 

“I mustn’t look too new or clean,” the Duke stipu¬ 
lated. The hint was sufficient; he was equipped with an 
entirely realistic costume. 

“Duplicate it, please,” said the Duke as he reentered 
his brougham. “It was careless of me to forget that it 
might rain.” 


[ 292 ] 



THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 

The Duke and Frank left King’s Cross the same 
evening (the chef had preceded them with the luggage; 
he made no stipulation about kitchen or scullery maids 
— everybody was always anxious to oblige his Grace) 
under cover of night. A journey of some forty miles 
brought them to their destination. On the outskirts of 
the little town lay the allotments. They were twelve in 
number, each comprising half-an-acre of land. Three 
cottages stood facing the allotments with their backs to 
the highroad. One of these now appertained to the 
Duke. The chef had done wonders: all was clean and 
comfortable — though the furniture was, of course, 
very plain. The dinner was excellent. A new spade, a 
new hoe, a new rake, and a new wheelbarrow stood just 
within the door. 

“Get up early and rub them over with dirt, Frank,” 
said the Duke as he retired, well pleased, to rest. 

The next morning also he breakfasted with excellent 
appetite. 

“I beg your Grace’s pardon,” said Frank, “but your 
Grace will not forget to be out of work ?” 

“I came here to be in work, Frank.” 

“The men work on their allotments only in their 
spare time, your Grace.” 

“1 see, I see. Thank you, Frank. I will certainly be 
out of work, if occasion arises to define precisely my 
economic position. I trust, however, that this is not an 
inquisitive neighborhood.” 

[ 293 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

It was not, as a rule. But just now there were special 
circumstances, unknown to Frank — and to the Duke. 

He began to dig at 9.30 a.m. Ilis allotment had been 
a good deal neglected, and the ground happened to be 
hard. Presently he found himself afflicted with acute 
sensations in the back. lie began to wonder what men on 
allotments did when they felt tired. A thought struck 
him — a reminiscence of his wide and curious reading. 
Observing a small girl seated on the railing wfflich bor¬ 
dered the allotments he approached her. “Child,” said 
he kindly^ “be good enough to go to the nearest public- 
house and fetch me a pint of four-’alf.” 

“W’ere’s your money ?” said the child. 

The Duke had been too realistic; there was no money 
in his pocket. He returned to his labors (he had prom¬ 
ised himself to be independent of Frank for at least three 
hours) with a sigh. The little girl laughed scornfully, 
and then performed a somersault. The Duke was not 
quite pleased. 

By twelve o’clock his back was very bad and his 
hands blistered. His corduroy trousers were cutting 
him at the back of the knees. Also it had begun to rain. 
“I have the sensation vividly enough for the moment. 
I will return to the cottage and have lunch,” he said 
to himself, throwing dowm his spade. He had turned 
up a considerable amount of earth, and had found some 
vegetables amongst it. He was not very clear what they 
were. He picked up his coat, put it on, and began in- 
[ 294 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 
stinctively to feel for a cigarette. No case was to be 
found. 

“Oh, d — n that Frank!” said the Duke mechani¬ 
cally. 

“Need you swear ?” asked a voice suddenly. 

“Who wouldn’t ?” mumbled the Duke, who was just 
wiping his brow (which was like that of the blacksmith 
in the poem) with a large and fearfully rough pocket- 
handkerchief. 

“What ?” 

The voice was very sharp. It recalled to the Duke 
the necessities of his situation. Emerging from behind 
the handkerchief, he found himself in the presence of 
a tall stout lady of imperious demeanor. She wore a 
skirt, consequentially ample, of shiny black, and a black 
velvet mantle embellished with beads, apparently jet. 

The Duke’s instinct rarely failed him — that was 
what would have made him such a great man of affairs. 
“The parson’s wife!” he thought to himself, without a 
moment’s hesitation. Then he cast about for his wisest 
course of action. 

“Why aren’t you at work ?” the lady demanded 
sternly. 

The Duke had worked extraordinarily hard for three 
hours. He was indignant. But he was wary. He was con¬ 
sidering what accent to adopt. It struck him that he 
would try the Somersetshire; he had heard that at the 
theaters; the rural (but honest) father of the erring (but 
[ 295 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

sweet) heroine usually employed it. Of course, if the 
parson’s wife happened to come from Somerset — 
Well, some risks must be taken. 

“I do be of a-workin’,” said the Duke. “Lasteways, 
I do be of a just ’avin’ done it.” He clung to his “be” 
with no small confidence. 

“Where do you come from ?” 

“Zummer-sett,” said he. 

“You talk in a funny way. When did you come here ?” 

The Duke felt sure that he ought not to say “Last 
night”; accordingly he replied “Yuster-e’en.” 

The lady looked suspicious, “You’re seeking employ¬ 
ment ?” 

Suddenly — and opportunely — the Duke remem¬ 
bered Frank’s warning: he was to be out of work. 

“Yus, I be,” he said, wondering if his face were dirty 
enough. 

“Church or Chapel ?” she asked sharply. 

“Church,” answered the Duke. And by a happy 
thought he added, “Ma’am.” 

“What’s your name ?” With the question she pro¬ 
duced a little note-book and a pencil. 

“Bew—” he began thoughtlessly. He stopped. A 
barren invention, and a mind acute to the danger of 
hesitation, combined to land him in “Devvle.” 

“Devil ? That’s a very odd name.” 

“My feyther’s name afore me,” affirmed the Duke, 
who felt that he was playing his part rather well, though 
[296 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 
he regretted that a different initial consonant had not 
occurred to him. 

The lady surveyed him with a long and distrustful 
glance. 

“Have you had any beer this morning ?” she asked. 

The Duke never took beer — not even in the even¬ 
ing. “None,” he replied with a touch of indignation. 

“I wish I was sure of that!” she remarked. The Duke, 
himself regretfully sure (for the digging had changed 
his feelings toward beer), wondered at her suspicious 
disposition. “Well, we shall see. You’re in my daugh¬ 
ter’s district. She will come and see you.” 

“Vurry good, ma’am,” said the Duke. 

“Are you married ?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“You live alone, then ?” 

Swiftly the Duke reflected. “I got a brother, ma’am, 
but ’e do be kind o’ — kind o’ weak. ” 

“A pair of you, I think!” she remarked rather dis¬ 
concertingly, as she turned and marched off. The Duke 
returned to his cottage and decided, over a pint of hock 
and a bottle of seltzer, that he had come out of the inter¬ 
view with much credit.” 

He did not hurry back to work after lunch. Why, he 
reflected, should he ? None of the other men were work¬ 
ing on their allotments. This fact seemed rather strange 
to him, since he overlooked the circumstance that har¬ 
vest was in full swing and all his supposed compeers 
[ 297 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

busy from dawn till late evening in the fields; but, know¬ 
ing that he was strange to his surroundings, he waited 
patiently for an explanation. He lit his pipe — a clay 
pipe, colored by and borrowed from one of his stable- 
boys, and sat on the fence in an agreeable meditation. 
The rain had ceased, and the afternoon was mild. 

“What more in reality,” he exclaimed, “does a man 
want than this ? I was quite right to insist on an entirely 
simple dinner.” He paused and added: “After all I will 
do a little weeding.” 

When he had done quite a little weeding, a thought 
struck him. He repaired to the cottage and called Frank. 
Frank appeared; he also wore corduroys and other 
suitable habiliments. “Very good, Frank, very good. 
You’re really an intelligent man. If a young lady calls, 
you’re an idiot.” 

“I — I beg your Grace’s pardon ?” 

“If a young lady calls, you’re to appear to be an 
idiot.” The Duke, as he spoke, smiled over the reflection 
that his order to Frank embodied nothing very unusual. 

“Very good, your Grace! What’s Monsieur Alphonse 
to be ?” 

“If he must exist at all he’d better be in bed — with 
something a trifle infectious,” answered the Duke, after 
a moment’s reflection. 

“Very good, your Grace. Burgundy or champagne at 
dinner ? The chambertin appears to have recovered 
from the journey ?” 


[ 298 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 

“Then let me have the chambertin,” said his Grace. 
“Dinner at seven. I feel as if I should be hungry. I am 
now going to take a walk.” 

On this walk through what proved to be exceedingly 
pretty country, the Duke meditated, in admiration 
mingled with annoyance, on the excellent organization 
of English rural parishes. The immediate notice taken 
of his arrival, the instantaneous zeal for his moral wel¬ 
fare, argued much that was good — the Duke deter¬ 
mined to say a few words about it in the House of 
Lords — but, on the other hand, it certainly rendered 
more difficult his experiment in the simple life — to say 
nothing of necessitating his adventurous excursion into 
the Somerset dialect. 

“She is probably actuated,” he concluded “by a 
groundless fear that I shall resort to the Nonconformist 
chapel.” 

Seven o’clock found him seated before his brightly 
furnished dining-table. The table was of deal, but it was 
covered with damask, decked with silver, and orna¬ 
mented by the chambertin. The Duke had a fine appe¬ 
tite, and fell to cheerfully on Monsieur Alphonse’s 
creations; these were studiously rural in their character 
— Watteau-like confections. Monsieur Alphonse was 
dreaming of the Petit Trianon. 

The cottage was not large; the sitting-room was in 
close proximity to the door. A sharp rap of somebody’s 
knuckles on the door startled him, just as he was finish- 
299 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

ing his first glass of chambertin. He was in demi-toiiette 
— a dress jacket and black tie. It should be added that, 
although daylight'prevailed outside, the blind of the 
window was carefully drawn down. 

The knock was repeated — rather impatiently. 
“Frank!” called the Duke in a voice carefully modu¬ 
lated. 

“I’m on my way,, your Grace,” Frank answered, 
putting his head in at the door. “I merely waited to put 
on a blanket over my dress-coat. Monsieur Alphonse 
has gone into bed. He looks very natural in his official 
apron, your Grace.” 

“Good,” said the Duke. “Don’t permit the person 
to enter.” He smiled slightly as he regarded Frank, who 
had hastily assumed a red blanket, striped with blue, 
and wore his hair brushed up straight from his head. 

The next moment the Duke heard the door of the 
cottage open, and one of the sweetest voices he had 
ever listened to in his life softly pronouncing the ques¬ 
tion: “Oh, please, are you the man Devil ?” 

“I really ought to have recollected to tell Frank about 
that little mistake of mine,” thought the Duke, smiling. 

His smile, however, vanished as he heard Frank, in 
answer to the question, shout with extraordinary vigor: 
“Yahoo, yahoo, yahoo!” 

“This will never do,” said the Duke, rising and laying 
down his napkin. “The fellow always over-acts. I said 
idiocy — not mania.” 


[ 300 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 

It appeared to do very well, all the same, for the sweet 
voice remarked, with no trace of surprise, “Oh, of course, 
you’re his poor brother; mama — I’m Miss Hordern, 
you know. Miss Angela Hordern — told me about you. 
Please don’t let yourself become nervous or — or 
excited.” 

Monsieur Alphonse’s voice suddenly broke forth, 
crying loudly: “I have ze fevaar — ze fevaar — veri bad 
fevaar. ” 

Point de zele! Talleyrand was right,” said the Duke 
sadly. 

“Who’s that ?” cried Miss Angela. “Is some poor man 
ill in there ? Oh, it’s not Devil himself, is it ?” 

No answer came from Frank, unless a realistically 
idiotic chuckle, faintly struggling, as it seemed to the 
Duke’s ears, with more natural mirth, may be counted 
as such. 

“I must see this girl,” said the Duke. 

“I think I’d better call again to-morrow,” said Miss 
Angela. “I’m in a hurry now — it’s Mothers’ Meeting 
night. I’ll come in to-morrow. Will you give this to your 
brother ? Mama sent it. Can you understand me, poor 
fellow ? 

“Yahoo, yahoo,” murmured Frank. 

The door closed. The Duke dashed to the win¬ 
dow, furtively drew the blind a little aside, and looked 
out. 

“Upon my word!” said the Duke. “Yes, upon my 
[ 301 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

word!” he reflected, twisting his mustache as he re¬ 
turned to the table. 

Frank entered, holding a silver salver. “With Miss 
Angela Hordern’s compliments, your Grace.” 

“Thank you, Frank. You can serve the fish; and beg 
Alphonse in future to wait for his cue.” 

“Very good, your Grace.” 

Frank withdrew, and the Duke examined the paper 
which he had taken from the salver. It acquired a certain 
interest from having passed through Miss Angela’s 
hands. The Duke fingered it delicately and eyed it pen¬ 
sively. It was entitled “A Dram for a Drinker; or. Just 
a Drop to do you Good.” 

“A neat title,” the Duke mused, “but perhaps liable 
to defeat its own object by evoking a reminiscence too 
pleasurable.” 

Frank entered with the fish. “Frank, I am at home 
next time Miss Hordern calls. You are not — nor Mon¬ 
sieur Alphonse.” 

“Very good, your Grace,” Frank answered. “Your 
Grace will answer the door yourself ?” 

The Duke had overlooked the point. He did not feel 
that he could answer a door at all plausibly. 

“Leave it on the jar,” he commanded, in a happy 
inspiration. 

But when he was left alone his brow clouded a little. 
“Suppose the mother comes!” he thought. His face 
cleared. “She shall see Alphonse and Frank. And I will 
[ 302 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 
see Miss Angela.” He lit liis cigar with a composed 
cheerfulness. “It is impossible,” he said meditatively, 
“to deny the interest of a sociological experiment. I am, 
however, inclined to hope that it will rain very hard 
to-morrow.” He stroked his back warily as he slid into 
a chair 


[ 303 ] 


Chapter Two 


E rose early the next morning—and observed the 



weather anxiously. It rained heavily. “Good,” 


said he, feeling his back. “One can’t dig in the 


wet. I shall have time to arrange affairs.” 

He had, in fact, tasks of no small difficulty to achieve. 

The first was with Monsieur Alphonse. The Duke 
courteously requested the chefs presence, Frank being 
the intermediary. Alphonse came. 

“Monsieur,” said the Duke, “I have to make a com¬ 
munication to you.” 

“Helas, Monsieur le Due!” said Monsieur Alphonse. 

“I shall not dine to-night. No, I sha’n’t have any 
dinner at all to-night.” 

“But this is worse than anything I had expected!” 

“I shall have tea — at seven.” 

“Mais —” said Alphonse. 

“Bread-and-butter, thickish; and tea — the tea of 
the grocer du pays.” 

“ Misericorde!! Monsieur le Due will sup ?” 

“Possibly. x\s for tea, I understand that it would be 
appropriate if you added a shrimp. Monsieur, we play 
a part!” 


[ 304 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 

“A part, Monsieur le Due f” 

“There’s a lady in the case, Alphonse.” 

“Everything explains itself!” cried Alphonse, looking 
as though he might be about to throw himself on the 
Duke’s bosom. “And she loves ze shrimp ?” 

“x4dores it.” 

“It is not to be had in this wilderness, I fear.” 

“No, Alphonse. Go and get it — at Greenwich, or 
Wapping, or wherever it lives. Leave at once. Be back 
at six-thirty. Good-by, Alphonse.” 

“A lady in the case! I will find ze shrimp!” said Al¬ 
phonse, as he left the parlor. 

Frank remained to be dealt with. The Duke sum¬ 
moned him, and addressed him with a serious air. 

“You are attached to me, Frank ?” 

“Yes, your Grace.” 

“I wish to be alone to-day. Have the goodness to 
occupy Mrs. Hordern’s attention.” 

“I don’t rightly know how to do it, your Grace.” 

“What day of the week is it ?” 

“Sunday, your Grace.” 

“A fortunate circumstance. One doesn’t dig on Sun¬ 
days ?” 

“No, your Grace.” 

“The rain may stop for all I care,” said the Duke. “Go 
and call on Mrs. Hordern, Frank, and get taken to church. 
Mitigate your mental inferiority to a reasonable extent; 
and say that the man with the fever has been removed.” 

[ 305 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“How, your Grace ?” asked Frank. 

“Don’t trouble me with details. Do as I tell you.” 

“Very good, your Grace.” 

“And let Miss Hordern arrive here at seven o’clock.” 

“Yes, your Grace.” 

“That will do, Frank. I shall not go out to-day. Leave 
the corduroys on the bed.” 

“Thank you, your Grace.” 

“And, Frank, in case I change my mind, let there be 
a motor-car here and a table at the Savoy this evening, 
rather late.” 

“I’ll attend to it at once, your Grace.” 

There was more work than usual at the local tele¬ 
graph office before ten that morning. But no one con¬ 
nected it with the cottage at the allotments. The young 
woman in charge understood that a gentleman had lost 
his motor-car. 

The simple device of sticking on his door a short no¬ 
tice that a case of infectious disease awaited removal to 
the workhouse infirmary secured for the Duke a quiet 
day. He sat behind his blind and observed his neigh¬ 
bors, who, in the intervals left them between the claims 
of devotion and those of conviviality, inspected their 
allotments and his. His appeared to the Duke to com¬ 
mand a disproportionate amount of attention. He feared 
that he must have dug up something prematurely — 
Frank had omitted to acquaint him with the course of 
husbandry initiated by his predecessor. The laughter of 
[ 306 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 
his neighbors somewhat jarred his sensitive spirit. And 
they certainly stared a lot at his shut door, his forbidding 
notice, and his blind so carefully drawn. He was also 
vexed by a sudden thought that, it being Sunday, Miss 
x4ngela might have to go to church and would not come 
to tea. 

“However, I made my wishes quite clear to Frank,” 
he murmured, hoping for the best. 

At one o’clock Frank returned by a circular route, 
and entered from the road, through the back-yard, which 
obviated the necessity of crossing the allotments. He 
served a cold luncheon. 

“You’ve arranged matters ?” 

“Yes, your Grace. The young lady will call at seven, 
with some jelly for your bad throat.” 

“I was rather afraid she might wish to go to church, 
Frank.” 

“Yes, your Grace; but, as you are too ill to go, the 
vicar thinks that it will do just as well if she comes and 
reads the Lessons of the Day to your Grace.” 

“Tliat it will do just as well ?” 

“That was the vicar’s expression, your Grace ” 

“Ah, he spoke from a professional point of view, no 
doubt. The arrangement is quite satisfactory. How did 
you get on with Mrs. Hordern — and at church ?” 

“I did very well, your Grace, since your Grace is kind 
enough to inquire. With reference to last night, I ex¬ 
plained that my attacks of mental affliction were inter- 
[ 307 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

mittent, though frequently reeurrent. But the doctor is 
to come and see me to-morrow — by Mrs. Hordern’s 
orders, your Grace.” 

“ ‘Sufficient unto the day!’ ” said the Duke serenely. 
“You will remove that notice from the door as soon as 
our neighbors have started for evening church — or 
chapel.” 

The afternoon wore itself slowly away, the Duke find¬ 
ing himself afflicted with some degree of ennui. “Is 
there no situation in life, however humble, however 
laborious,” he said, “that is free from this plague ? It 
is, indeed, a lesson to me that we should be content with 
our several stations.” He went to his bedroom, snatched 
a short repose, and, rising in better heart, assumed his 
corduroys o 

At six-thirty a large motor-car broke down opposite 
the village inn. The chauffeur announced that the neces¬ 
sary repairs would take some time. He took some time 
himself, and some refreshment, before he set about them. 
At sixty-fifty Frank, returning from a little stroll in the 
neighborhood of the inn, reported the arrival of Mon¬ 
sieur Ferdinand, his Grace’s chief chauffeur, and re¬ 
moved the notice from the door of the cottage. He laid 
tea and withdrew. Everything was ready except the 
shrimps. There was, as yet, no sign of the shrimps, nor 
of Monsieur Alphonse. 

“It can’t be that Alphonse will fail me!” thought the 
Duke uneasily. The shrimps, although not absolutely 
[ 308 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 
essential, constituted an artistic detail particularly con¬ 
gruous with his taste. 

Precisely at seven o’clock he saw Miss Hordern 
approaching. With enormous pleasure he noted the 
graceful outline of her figure as she crossed the allot¬ 
ment; with less pleasure he observed that she was ac¬ 
companied by what is termed a growing “lad” of about 
fourteen. “These precautions aren’t very complimen¬ 
tary,” thought the Duke. 

Her knock sounded on the door. The Duke fell into a 
doze. She knocked again. 

“I do hope he’s not — not queer again to-day,” said 
Angela. 

“The door’s open: let’s go in and look. I’m not afraid.” 

He heard them enter the house; he rose and opened 
the sitting-room door. 

“Oh, there you are! Good-evening. May we come in ? 
Mama would have come and let me go to church, only 
she’s got such a bad headache that she’s been obliged 
to go to bed.” 

The Duke made no immediate reply. Angela came in, 
followed by the boy. The boy put down on the table a 
round parcel which he was carrying. 

“Jelly,” thought the Duke. 

Angela laid down a volume. 

“Lessons,” the Duke surmised. 

“Oh, but you haven’t had your tea yet!” said Angela. 
“I’m afraid we are interrupting you.” 

[309 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

"It’s laid for two, ” remarked the boy. 

“Himself and his poor brother, Tommy!” 

“I do be proud —” began the Duke. 

But suddenly the door from the kitchen opened and 
Monsieur Alphonse appeared. He carried a large plate 
loaded with shrimps. 

“Ze shrimp!” he cried triumphantly, waving a napkin 
which he held in his other hand. 

“Crikey, who’s this!” cried Tommy. 

Well he might! Monsieur Alphonse wore a tight- 
fitting frock-coat, a waterfall tie of huge dimensions, 
pearl-gray trousers, white spats, and patent-leather 
boots, a red rose in one lapel of the coat, and in the 
other the blue ribbon of the Order of St. Honoratus 
of Pomerania bestowed on him by his Serene Highness 
the Reigning Duke, on the occasion of the latter’s coro¬ 
nation banquet. 

The Duke was vexed. “Monsieur Alphonse,” he said, 
“I did not ring.” Naturally he forgot the absence of a 
bell. 

“ilfafs, Monsieur le -” 

The Duke arrested his words with a gesture, and 
turned to Angela. 

“Further concealment, madame, is, I fear, useless. I 
am not what I seem. May I rely on your honor ?” 

Angela fixed her charming blue eyes on the Duke. 

“But who are you ? And what does it mean ?” 

There is no telling what explanation the Duke in- 
[ 310 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 

tended to proffer; for at this instant Tommy cried, 
with every appearance of agitation: “Angela, Willie 
Anderson was right! It is them!” 

“Them!” said Angela affrightedly, and sank into a 
chair. 

“Who’s Willie Anderson, my boy ?” asked the Duke 
kindly. 

“He’s the Chief Constable — and you’ll soon find it 
out. If you did take the silver plate, you needn’t have 
knocked old Lady Culverstone down with the poker, 
you — you scoundrel, you!” 

“I knock old Lady Culverstone down with the — 
Oh, preposterous!” exclaimed the Duke. He turned to 
Angela. 

“You don’t don’t believe that of me ?” he asked in a 
tender voice. 

“It was supposed they wore the disguise of working¬ 
men,” she answered. “Willie did tell me that.” 

“Willie ?” 

“I’m — I’m engaged to Captain Anderson, the Chief 
Constable,” Angela confessed, with a pretty blush. 

“There you are!” said the Duke, fairly exasperated 
by this additional vexation. “That’s what always hap¬ 
pens to me! ” 

Before he could say any more, Frank rushed in from 
the kitchen. 

“The cottage is surrounded with police and labor..rs!” 
he cried. “They’ll be in at the door in a moment!” 

[ 311 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

To confirm his words there came a loud crash on the 
door (which Angela had thoughtfully closed after her). 
The next instant it burst open; a young man dashed 
into the room — a good-looking young man — followed 
by three police constables and half-a-dozen of the Duke’s 
curious neighbors. They had drawn their conclusions 
from his strange reserve and his obvious ignorance of 
agriculture; they had communicated with the police. 
Captain Anderson was a smart officer (D.S.O.). Three 
London burglars were wanted for the robbery at old 
Lady Culverstone’s, and were believed to be lurking in 
the neighborhood, knowing that the railway and the 
road to London would be watched. 

The Duke never hesitated. As Captain Anderson 
dashed in at one door, he dashed out at the other, fol¬ 
lowed by Frank and Monsieur Alphonse. lie could, of 
course, have declared himself, but such an action would 
have severely wounded his amour propre; he prided 
himself on carrying out his experiments unostentati¬ 
ously, and hated getting his name into the papers. 

“Make for the inn V’ he whispered to his companions, 
as they escaped from the back door of the cottage, 
dashed across its tiny yard, and gained the main road. 

“After them, my lads! ” rang out Captain Anderson’s 
military tones; and the whole force was at their heels. 
Tommy gleefully shouting “Tally ho!” Only two of 
the more intelligent neighbors stopped in the cottage 
and inspected the Duke’s household goods. They were 
[ 312 ] 


THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 
afraid to take the silver (it was a special set, used dur¬ 
ing excursions, and bore no crest or arms) but they took 
the chambertin with results surprising to themselves; 
for it tasted mild. 

All the rest went after the Duke, and with them An¬ 
gela, who was as active a girl as one could wish to see. 
Moreover she was wily; she knew the country. While 
the Duke and his companions, holding a lead of barely 
twenty yards, rushed along the highroad toward the 
inn, while Captain Anderson (who was not so inti¬ 
mately connected with the district) led his pack directly 
after them — Tommy hanging persistently to their 
heels — Angela took a short cut. The road curved. She 
struck across the diameter of the curve, breasting the 
undergrowth, narrowly avoiding the gorse, holding her 
Sunday skirt high in her hand, full of courage, eager to 
help her betrothed, eager to help to put a feather in his 
cap, to assist in his brilliant capture of the burglars. 

Thus it chanced that when the Duke, Frank, and 
Monsieur Alphonse reached the motor-car — in which 
Monsieur Ferdinand, hearing the rush of hurrying feet 
and knowing that the Duke was occasionally pressed 
for time, had already taken his seat — they were, in¬ 
deed, clear of their pursuers but they were faced by 
Angela. 

“Jump in,” cried the Duke. 

Frank and Monsieur Alphonse obeyed. The Duke 
was following himself with all agility — for Captain 
[313] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Anderson was now no more than ten yards off — when 
Angela threw herself upon him, gripping him firmly, 
and crying: “I’ll hold him for you, Willie I” 

The Duke admired her courage, but regretted her 
persistency. He could not, without roughness, disen¬ 
gage himself from her grasp; but he could lift her into 
the car with him. lie did. She gave a scream. “Full 
steam ahead !” cried the Duke. With a turn of Monsieur 
Ferdinand’s handles they were off! 

Just in time! Monsieur Alphonse, on the back seat, 
felt Anderson’s hand clutch his coat collar just as they 
started. Fortunately Frank had taken occasion to drop 
a waterproof rug over the number of the car at the back. 

“Stop, stop, stop, I say!” cried Angela. 

“I regret it deeply, but for the moment I’m not in a 
position to oblige you, madame,” said the Duke, as he 
wedged her in safely between himself and Monsieur 
Ferdinand, on the roomy front seat. “The local police 
are otherwise occupied — you need not exercise excessive 
caution, Ferdinand,” he remarked to the chauffeur. 
Ferdinand obeyed his injunctions. 

Nothing more passed for some minutes. They were, 
in fact, all very much out of breath — except Ferdi¬ 
nand, and he had enough to do with his own work. At 
last, however, Angela gasped: “Anyhow, the air is deli¬ 
cious !” 

The Duke was gratified and encouraged. “I’m so glad 
you’re enjoying the drive,” said he. 

[ 314 ] 




THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 

“Please don’t speak to me.” 

“I fell into the error of supposing that you addressed 
me, madame.” 

“What does it all'mean ?” she said — for it Avas im¬ 
possible for her not now to perceive that she was dealing 
with a gentleman. 

The Duke replied with some warmth. “It means, 
madame, simply that I claim, and intend, to exercise an 
Englishman’s right to occupy or, if you will, to amuse 
himself in his own way within the limits of the law; and 
that will not be interfered with or harried by police¬ 
men and so forth while I’m so engaged. Do I do any 
harm to anybody ? It’s preposterous.” 

“I suppose you’re mad really,” she said thoughtfully. 

“Then let’s be mad together for just a little while,” 
he suggested. “Come now, you’re finding this enjoy¬ 
able ?” 

“What will Willie be feeling — and thinking ?” She 
gave a light laugh. “Oh, I’m glad mama’s gone to 
bed!” she added the next moment. 

“She is beginning to enjoy herself,” the Duke decided. 

“You will take me back ?” 

The Duke looked at his watch. “You shall be at the 
vicarage not later than half-past ten.” 

“Oh, but that’s very late!” 

“Earlier, if you wish, but in no case later. After all, 
Mrs. Hordern has gone to bed — and Captain Ander¬ 
son is probably very tired.” 

[ 315 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

Angela looked at him; her eyes twinkled a little — or 
maybe that was only an impression of the Duke’s. 

“I’ve always heard that it’s dangerous to thwart mad 
people,” she said. 

The Duke has been heard to say that this young lady, 
whom he entertained that night in a manner which may 
be termed purely fortuitous, was one of the most agree¬ 
able companions whom it had ever been his fortune to 
meet. The praise, coming from him, is high. There can 
be little doubt that Miss Angela Hordern, in her turn, 
felt the attraction which the Duke’s good breeding and 
intellectual alertness seldom failed to arouse. 

“I should love a motor!” sighed Miss Angela. 

“You’re going to have one,” said the Duke. “But we 
must have something to eat first.” 

“You talk as if you were a prince in disguise!” she 
laughed. 

The Duke laughed too, refiecting that, as a matter 
of strict formality, he was entitled to the style she 
mentioned. In view of this fact he did not feel called 
upon expressly to deny the suggestion. There can be 
little doubt that his silence, to which perhaps she at¬ 
tributed too much significance, enhanced the pleasure 
of her ride. 

“I’m to know you then only by that very funny name ?” 

In an examination of her profile — for which the 
light still sufficed — the Duke had grown abstracted. 
“^Yhat name ?” he murmured vaguely. 

[ 316 ] 


THE DUKE^S ALLOTMENT 

“The one you told mama — Devil! That’s not really 
your name ?” 

“Not exactly!” laughed the Duke. 

“I should think not,” laughed the lady. Herself some¬ 
what addicted to colloquial expressions, she failed to 
understand with what accuracy the Duke had phrased 
his reply. 

“I shall think of you as the Prince of Darkness,” said 
she with the kindliest glance. 

“I doubt whether much of this is not wasted on a 
Chief Constable,” thought the Duke. 

“Are you married ?” she asked. 

“I am not,” said the Duke, turning sharply round as 
he spoke. He fancied that he had heard Monsieur Al¬ 
phonse exclaim “Mon Dieu! ” It must have been a mis¬ 
take. Both Monsieur Alphonse and Frank appeared to 
be asleep. 

“I’m going to be.” 

“You’ve conveyed that to me already.” 

“He’s such a dear!” 

“I think, Ferdinand, that we might venture on going 
a little faster,” said the Duke. “Your license is new: we 
will take the risk.” 

Perhaps Miss Angela detected a certain lack of en¬ 
thusiasm in the Duke’s demeanor. At any rate she said 
no more about the Chief Constable. From no point of 
view, if we consider the matter, would the topic be a 
grateful one to her host. 

[ 317 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

They were on the outskirts of London, flashing by 
Hampstead Heath. 

“Is this actually London ?” she asked, somewhat 
alarmed. “You will remember your promise 

The Duke looked at his watch. “Eight-twenty! The 
Savoy would be rather a rush for you.” He called across 
to Monsieur Ferdinand: “To the cottage!” 

Five minutes later they stopped before the Duke’s 
small house in a lane adjoining the Heath. 

“Monsieur Alphonse, here’s your opportunity. A nice 
little dinner in a quarter of an hour for mademoiselle 
and myself!” 

“It shall be so. Monsieur le -” 

“Quick, quick!” interrupted the Duke. “Excuse me 
one moment. Frank, show Miss Hordern in, and see to 
her wants. I must have a word with Ferdinand.” 

Angela Hordern entered the little house full of a 
pleasurable anticipation. All was ready for them; fresh 
flowers bloomed everywhere; The Observer and The 
Referee lay on the table. She turned to Frank in a sudden 
surprise: 

“He meant to come here all the time ?” 

“No, madame. But this is always kept ready by his 
Gra —, — by my master’s orders. 

“He must be very rich!” 

“I am given to understand that the revenue has de¬ 
creased slightly of late,” was Frank’s answer, given with 
admirable carelessness. 


[ 318 ] 



THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 

“That’s all settled,” said the Duke, entering the room 
with a cheerful air. “I’m right, Frank, in supposing that 
Sir Gerald Standish is still in the Bahamas ?” 

“Yes, your —” He caught the Duke’s eye, and dex¬ 
terously ended: “Quite right, sir.” 

“Then this car will do admirably,” said the Duke. 
“You have no idea,” he continued to Angela, “how 
convenient it is to persuade two or three friends 
to allow one to register a car or two in their names, 
especially when they happen to be leaving the country. 
I don’t happen to be aware whether the practice is 
legal.” 

Frank brought in an omelet. 

“Pray be seated,” continued the Duke. “This par¬ 
ticular car will take you home in forty-five minutes. 
Ferdinand has gone to bring it here — and a most trust¬ 
worthy man to drive you.” 

“But — but what am I to do with them ?” 

“The man will remove the number of the car, and 
himself return by train-” 

“There isn’t any train at this time of night — or 
rather at the time it will be by then.” 

“Oh yes, there’ll be a train — Ferdinand won’t for¬ 
get that.” 

“You mean — a special ?” 

“Really,” said the Duke, with the slightest air of 
being questioned enough, “they have so many different 
names for trains that I don’t encumber my memory 
[ 319 ] 



LOVE’S LOGIC 

with them. There will, however, be a train. As for the 
car — What’s this, Frank 

“Alphonse offers his sincere apologies. But the de¬ 
sign, at least, is novel. The way the truffles are arranged 
_» 

“Miss Hordern will excuse our shortcomings. Where 
is the champagne ?’• 

“On the ice, your-” 

“Yes, yes. As for the car. Miss Hordern, I venture 
to hope that you will accept it as a token of my regard — 
and a reminiscence of an evening which has turned out 
not, I hope, altogether unpleasantly ?” 

“Oh, I couldn’t!” 

“You accepted the Chief Constable.” 

“But he — he’s very delightful,” Angela said, appar¬ 
ently eager to convince him of the soundness of her 
judgment. 

“So is the car,” said the Duke, tactfully avoiding the 
discussion. 

Angela swallowed her last morsel of truffle, and 
drank her last drain of champagne. The sound of a 
motor was heard in the lane outside. 

The Duke looked at his watch and sighed. She came 
up to him and stretched out her hand. 

“And so are you — very delightful,” she said. 

The Duke bent low and lightly kissed her hand. 

“How am I to think of you ?” she asked. 

“We’ll each think of the other as of an evening’s holi- 
[ 320 ] 




THE DUKE’S ALLOTMENT 

day,” he said. “Some streak of variety across life — a 
dream, if you will — a sample of what we seek and see 
and lose. Or do I put my claim too high ?” 

“No,” she said softly. “But I must go back to my 
home.” 

“And to your Chief Constable ?” 

She drew away from him, saying, a trifle defiantly: 
“I love him.” 

“Yes; but you’ve enjoyed your evening?” asked the 
Duke. 

“Oh, it’s been fun!” she cried, with a sudden gurgling 
laugh. 

She darted her hand out to him again. This time he 
pressed it. She turned and ran out of the house. At ten- 
twenty-eight she arrived at the vicarage (the Duke had 
left a margin), and wrote to Captain Anderson to call 
very early and fetch away a motor-car. She would keep 
Mrs. Hordern in bed till lunch-time; and the vicar never 
entered the unused stables. 

As for the Duke, he changed his clothes and drove 
down to the Savoy. 

As he was finishing his coffee in his dressing-room 
the next morning, Frank said: “I beg your Grace’s 
pardon ?” 

“Well, Frank ?” said the Duke encouragingly. 

“Does your Grace return to-day to the allotment ?” 

“Surely, Frank, I have told you before now that I 
prefer not to have my movements suggested to me ?” 

[321 ] 


LOVE’S LOGIC 

“Yes, your Grace; I know, your Grace. But — but 
what am I to do with the allotment and the cottage ?” 

“Pay for them, to be sure, Frank,” said the Duke. 

“I’ve done that, your Grace.” * 

“Then what remains to be done ? You buy a thing, 
you pay for it, use it, perhaps enjoy it” (he smiled con¬ 
tentedly) — “what more remains ?” 

“I — I don’t know, your Grace.” 

“No more do I, Frank. You can take away the break¬ 
fast.” 


END 


[ 322 ] 




conr DP! , TOCAX OIVi 

SEl 13 1907 

















































LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


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